Black lettering quote tattoo on skin

The bus from Marla stopped at the Nine Mile pumps again this morning, and the driver still asks after you, though he can't quite remember your face. I told him you'd gone east to find work on the rigs. He nodded as if that was the answer everyone gives. Mum keeps your room exactly as you left it, which means the stack of old atlases is still wedged under the bed and the radio still hums whenever the wind comes off the flats.

I should tell you something I've not told anyone. I cry most days out here. Not because anything's wrong, you understand. The sky goes that lilac colour after the sun drops behind the ridge, the saltbush catches the last of the light, and I stand by the ice chest thinking how much of it there is and how little time any of us has to look. Then the tears come and I let them. Dolores from the café says it's only dust in my eyes, and I let her believe that.

The thing about a place this empty is that nothing gets wasted. The rain comes once a year, the whole valley rushes into flower for a week, and then it's gone. Nobody has to tell you it was brief. I think about that when the lorries roll through, drivers with sore backs and better stories than they've any right to tell. They're always in a hurry. I'd like to make them stop, just once, and look.

Come home before the rains. Bring the camera you bought and never used, and I'll make tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. We'll sit on the step and watch the light go. If I start crying, don't ask me why. You'll know.

Your loving sister, Ada