Black and grey rose on a forearm

The rose on the net store wall finally opened this morning, though not the red you'd expect from a rose. Mr Pell says it's the sea air that greys them, and he's probably right, because every petal has gone the colour of wet slate at the edges and soft smoky charcoal toward the middle, as if someone had gone over them with a stub of pencil and then thought better of it. The leaves are darker still, almost blue-black after the rain, and they curl over the coping as though they're trying to keep the wind out.

I've been sitting on the upturned crab pot with my tea going cold, copying it onto the backs of the tide tables. Eleven drawings so far. Each one comes out a little less like the bloom and a little more like what I remember of your grandfather's hands, which I suppose is the same thing. Pell came past with the post and asked if I'd finally gone soft in the head. I told him the Lark is four days overdue and a woman has to do something with her hands.

I pressed one petal into the back of your old logbook, the one you left in the drawer with the broken compass. It's gone flat and grey as a sixpence, and it smells faintly of tar. I hope that doesn't sound foolish. When the light on the point came on last night I went out to the wall and stood there until the tide was halfway up the steps, thinking that if he came round the headland and saw the rose from the water, he'd know exactly which house was ours.

Come home along the harbour wall when you land. I've left the gate on the latch and the kettle filled. The rose will still be open. They don't last long once the weather turns.

Love, Mum