Black script lettering reading que sera sera along the inner forearm, with the hands clasped over the knees in warm sunlight.

Que sera sera script on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm with the words que sera sera written in black cursive script running diagonally towards the wrist. The linework is smooth and solid, with the ink appearing crisp against the skin. The arm rests across bare knees with the hands clasped, and a green sleeve and a stone building blur softly in the background.

Lettering Forearm Script Phrase Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The ferry from the mainland was late again, so Marion read the postcard twice on the quay before she believed it was from her brother. Three lines in his cramped capitals, with a stamp showing a lighthouse nobody had repainted in forty years. The last line had run under the rain and gone blue at the edges, but she could still make out the words he always used when he was too proud to say he was frightened. Que sera sera, Mouse. Whatever will be.

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The lane up from the harbour had gone under the sea in the spring tides of her childhood, and the chapel was a shop now, selling salt bread to people who came in on silent boats and left before dark. Nobody on the island used the old phrase any more. Their mother had sung it over the washing line and over the stove, flat and cheerful, in the years when the tide was only a rumour. Teddy had learnt it from her and never let it go.

She found him in the lamp room, where the glass was cracked and the gulls had made it their own. He had not written the words on the wall, as she had half expected. He had carved them into the brass rail beside the old lens, in the same looping hand their mother used on the lids of the biscuit tins, and beneath them, smaller, a date she recognised as the week they buried her.

Marion sat down on the damp step and took out the pencil she kept for lists. On the back of his card she wrote one line, Come home for supper, and posted it through the slot in the tin box by the door, where the tide would not reach until morning.