Black script lettering around a thigh

The oven clock says twenty to five and the first trays are cooling on the rack by the back door, so I have a few minutes before the lads arrive to write this properly. You will remember Mrs Haddow's ribbon. She sent it down with the wedding loaf every spring, a length of cream silk with her husband's sayings stitched across it in black thread, slanting from one corner to the other, with little dots between the words so nobody could read the whole thing at once. Dad always said she could not sew a straight line to save her life, and he was right, but the curves were lovely.

Since you left, I have been trying to read the last line, the one she never finished. Last Tuesday I unrolled the remainder over the flour sacks and held the lamp low, and the loops went up and down like a river tracing a hill. I thought I had it. Then the proving timer went off and I lost my place, the way you lose a tune halfway through a verse.

Anyway, the bread is good this week. The rye came out with a proper crack along the top and the sourdough rose higher than the tin. I kept the first loaf back for you, wrapped in the blue cloth, though I know you will not come for it. If you are passing her gate, ask her what the last word says. I would rather hear it from her than keep guessing at the curls.

Yours before the sun, Ruth