Back tattoo in an outdoor shower

The cistern behind the printing shed overflowed again on Tuesday, so I've had the boys bail it with buckets, and I've been standing in the rain thinking about your uncle's blocks. You asked why he never sold the cherry-wood set. I told you he was saving them. That was true, but it wasn't the whole of it.

He cut the first one the spring the monsoon came early and the lane flooded up to the step. Every leaf on that plate is one he watched bend under water. He'd sit on the back step with a bowl of rice and a pencil and draw the same banana fronds over and over until the ribs stood up like wet bone. Then he'd carve, all in reverse, and the ink would come off the block as black as strong tea.

Last week a man from the city offered him four hundred for the lot. Your uncle laughed, then went quiet, then asked him to come back in the dry season. The man left a card on the bench. I've kept it under the ink tin, where the damp can't reach it.

Come home at the end of the month and bring the big brush. I'll show you how to pull a print so the darkest line stays dark, the way he always did, and we'll hang the first sheet in the shed where the sun comes through the leaves.

Love, Nan