Black ink tree of life tattoo with swirling branches, roots and Hebrew lettering inside a circle, placed on the side of the torso.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tree of life with Hebrew lettering on the side

Botanical · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A black ink tree of life sits inside a circle on the side of the torso, with ornate, swirling branches above and spreading roots below. Hebrew lettering runs along the lower part of the circle beneath the roots. The tattoo is solid black with no shading or colour, and the photograph is taken close up against a dark background with a grey garment and purple waistband at the top edge.

Botanical Ribs Tree of life Branches Root Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The sign on Oldham Street had been painted over three times since the war, and by half eleven the rain had lifted the newest coat in soft grey blisters. I worked under a single lamp with my flat brushes, a tin of black enamel and a cup of cold tea going thick on the step. Nobody walks past at that hour except the night-shift cleaners and the odd lad heading home from the chippy, and they never look up at lettering.

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The circle came first, pencilled round a tin lid because the old man who ran the shop wanted it perfect. Then the trunk, which I did freehand and fast, the way my nan used to draw trees on the backs of gas bills. The branches went up and curled over themselves like smoke from a bad fire, and I thought about how she never once drew the same tree twice. I let the roots spread under the circle, thin and knotted, and when I came to the letters beneath them my hand went steady without me asking it to.

Halfway through, a woman in a grey coat stopped under the awning and watched me for a long minute. She didn't say anything. She just tapped the glass where the roots met the lettering and nodded, as though I had finally got it right. I wiped my brush on my jeans and kept going, because the paint would not wait for either of us.

When I stood back at dawn the tree was black and dry against the cream ground, its roots gripping the words as if they had always been there. The woman had gone. The cleaners had gone. I packed the tin into my bag and pressed my palm flat against the wall, and it came away clean, which is all anyone can ask of a sign.