Close photo of the words The best is yet to come in thin black script tattooed diagonally along the inner forearm.

Script quote on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a fine line script tattoo reading "The best is yet to come" running diagonally along the inner forearm. The black lettering has a thin, even stroke with flowing joins, set against pale skin. Dark beaded chains and a dark fabric sit in the background under warm lighting.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Quote Script Text Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now sit still, our Derek, and let me tell you about Walter Pyle, because you've been pulling at my apron strings all afternoon wanting a story, and this is the only one I've got that doesn't end with a funeral. Walter was a sign-writer. He came to Holbeck Market in 1952 with a box of brushes and a tin of japan that smelled of burnt toffee, and he lettered every shop window on the high street before the frost came off. He had a hand like a bird landing, all loops and little hooks where the ink wanted to run and he wouldn't let it.

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Mrs Garrod at the draper's asked him for something to hang over her counter. She'd buried two husbands and a daughter who'd gone off to Leeds, and she wanted something hopeful painted where the customers could see it. Walter spent three evenings on a card first, testing his joins. He read it to me across my kitchen table, every letter of it in that fine slanting hand. The best is yet to come. I said that was a lot to ask of a card. He laughed and said it was a lot to ask of anybody.

The sign went up on a Tuesday. By Friday the draper's had shut for the week and Walter had gone south with a girl from the chapel choir, leaving his brushes behind in a jam jar on my windowsill. Mrs Garrod kept the sign, though. When she died they found it propped against the back wall of her shop, the gold gone grey, the joins still perfect as the day they were pulled.

So when you ask me if that's the proper ending, I say the story has a bit more in it. Fetch the jam jar off the dresser and look at the bristles. They're still stiff with ink, and I've never had the heart to clean them. Walter's hand is gone, but the last stroke he made is the one that's held, and that's the best I can say for any of us.