Small black fine line pine tree tattoo on the inner wrist, above a fluffy green knitted cuff.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small pine tree on the inner wrist

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black pine or fir tree stands upright on the inner wrist, with a tapered trunk and tiered, feathered branches. The linework is fine and the tree is filled with dark ink, with little visible shading. The background is a white sheet and a pale green fluffy knitted cuff, which makes the black ink stand out clearly.

Fine line Botanical Other Pine tree Conifer Tree

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The officer at Hollin Pass wanted to know what was in the tin, and I told him it was tea, which was a lie, though not a very good one, since the tin was damp at the seams. He turned it over under the lamp. Inside, beneath a fold of wet muslin, a sapling sat in a bed of its own grey soil, its roots bundled in wax paper like a letter nobody had opened.

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Forms, he said. Origin, destination, species. I had a paper in my coat that my grandmother filled in during 1961 for a cutting of the same tree, the one that grew by the gate at Corrow, and the stamp on it had faded to a ghost. He read her handwriting twice. Pinus, he said, as if testing whether it would bite. Plantation stock? Native to nothing, I told him. It came up from a cone that fell over the wall.

He did not smile, but he did not close the tin either. Behind him the wind leaned on the hut and the flag on the far pole cracked twice. He asked how long the journey would take, and I said it would take as long as it took, because roots do not care for timetables and, in my experience, neither do men with stamps. He pressed the rubber down with nothing on it, just a clean impression, and slid the tin back across the counter.

On the far side the ground was a different colour. I knelt on the first verge I found and pressed the little tree into it with my thumbs, then sat back on my heels and looked up at the hillside, black with its own kind. I thought about that empty stamp, the one clean mark he had left, and how a thing could be waved through without anyone ever writing its name down.