Close view of a small black cactus tattoo on the inner wrist of a person wearing a checked shirt and holding a metallic copper clutch.

Small cactus tattoo on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small, simple cactus outline sits on the inner wrist, shown in black ink. The linework is thin and clean, with no shading or fill. The rest of the frame is muted, with a white and black checked shirt, a gold bracelet, rings and a metallic copper clutch against a dark background.

Fine line Forearm Cactus

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Brother Anselm had carried the cutting in a wet cloth for nine days, and by the time the mule reached the gate at Santa Brígida the cloth had dried to a crust that smelled of sap and dust. The porter, a man called Tomas with one good eye, looked at the bundle and then at the monk. "That is a weed," he said. "We have enough weeds." Anselm said nothing. He had been told the rule of the house was silence, and he took it to mean he could wait.

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He planted it in the north corner of the herb garden, where the wall threw shade for an hour after noon. The abbot came out each morning to see whether it had died. It did not die, but it did not grow either, and the novices began to say the monk had been cheated by a dealer in Valdeflores who sold him a stone with a green coat. Anselm watered it from his own cup and turned the soil with his fingers.

In the third winter the rain came sideways off the ridge and stayed for six weeks. The cistern cracked. The wheat rotted in the lower fields. When the sun finally came back, the abbot walked out to the north wall and found the cactus had swollen to the height of a child, its ribs fat with water, and at its crown a single white flower open like a lamp. The abbot knelt down in the mud. Anselm, who had said nothing for three years, said only, "It kept what it was given."