Black and grey photo of a small fine line infinity symbol tattooed on the side of a finger, with the hand resting on a bare leg.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small infinity symbol on a finger

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey photograph of a hand held up with the index and middle fingers extended. A small infinity symbol is tattooed on the side of the index finger, drawn in thin, even black linework. The bare leg, pale top and dark seat fill the background, and the image is in soft monochrome.

Fine line Hand Infinity symbol Infinity Hand Finger

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dad taught me to graft in the August the Bramley came in heavy, when the sap was running slow and the wood went soft under the bark. He cut a scion from the old tree by the gate, a whippy length with three buds, and showed me how to slant both cuts so the green lined up with the green. 'Match the skins,' he said. 'Get them touching at one edge and the rest takes care of itself.'

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We bound it with grafting tape, then wrapped the join again with raffia, over and under, until the whole thing was a loop of knots. I kept asking when we'd know. He said the answer was always the same: you wait until spring, and then you wait longer. Meanwhile the wasps came to the windfalls under the tree and the light lay amber across the grass in rows where the mower had been.

Maud Pritchard from the next holding came over the wall with a jug of her own cider and said we were fools to graft in a drought. Dad poured her a cup and let her talk. I went back to the rootstock, and I found that if I stood very still, the shadows of the branches moved across the ground in a figure of eight, looping through the same two hollows over and over, never quite arriving anywhere.

In April the bud broke. Two shoots came out of one trunk, one of them Bramley and the other something Dad had never named, and he stood with his hands in his pockets and laughed. 'Well,' he said. 'It didn't go anywhere after all.' I still think of the raffia under the bark, holding the two of them together, and how the tree never once asked which half was which.