Blessed script tattoo on a shoulder

The post van couldn't get up Scarrow Lane again this morning, so I walked the parcels up myself, through the edge of Hollin Wood where the beeches have started to drop. Mr Abbott had a box of his late wife's knitting needles he wanted sent to his daughter in Leeds, and he stood at the gate watching me go as if I might lose them in the bracken. I did not. I have never lost a thing in my life, though you have lost enough for both of us.

Halfway along the path a jay went up out of a holly, shrieking as if someone had trodden on its tail, and the brown leaves came down over me in a flurry. One landed on my sleeve. I stood very still and let it sit there, and I thought of your handwriting, the way you looped your Bs and let your Ls trail off the page as if they were bored. You always signed off with that one word, blessed, in your thin, flowing hand, even on the letters where you were furious with me. I used to think it was a joke. It was not a joke.

I have decided to stop waiting for your letters to find their own way up the hill. So this one goes with a stamp I bought off Mr Abbott himself, who insisted on charging me a penny for the walk.

Come home at Christmas if you can. The big beech by the stile has finally fallen and the wood looks wider without it. Bring that blue coat.

Blessed, as ever, Edith