Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Small rose on an upper arm
Fine line · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo
A small black rose with a curved stem and two leaves sits on the outer upper arm of a person wearing a white top, dark jeans and a silver belt. The linework is thin and even, with the petals drawn as simple outlines and no visible shading. The ink is black on skin, set against a plain white wall and light clothing.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
Sit closer, you'll miss the bit about the bridge. Now. The customs man at Lessenvale had a face like a shut door, and he wanted to know what Mrs Okonedo was hiding in her lap. She said a cabbage. He said cabbages do not sit that still. So she lifted the cloth, and there was a rose stem no longer than a finger, bare, wrapped in wet newspaper and a strip torn from her own petticoat.
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It was a cutting, she told him, from the bush behind the station master's house in Varno, the one planted the spring the railway came, when her mother was still hauling buckets up from the well. The guard said plants needed a permit. She said so did grief, and nobody had ever stamped one of those. He laughed despite himself, which is the first mistake a man with a stamp can make.
He turned the parcel over in his gloves for a long time. Behind him the far bank was a grey line of hills and a single lamp. Then he took the pen from behind his ear, wrote something on the manifest, and pushed the cloth back across the table. 'Plant it facing east,' he said. 'Roses like to see where they're going.'
She did, in the end, in a biscuit tin on the sill of the new house on the far side. It took two summers to flower. Some evenings I still think of that guard standing in the lamplight, deciding which of us the border was really for.
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