Cat, dragonfly and poppy on a forearm

The rain has got into the stall again, and the poppies have dropped their petals across the tarpaulin like someone spilt a tin of paint. I sold four bunches before ten, and Mrs Okafor bought the last of the dahlias for her husband's grave, though she said he never liked them. Mr Pell from the fishmonger's next door keeps eyeing our cat, Smoke, who sleeps on the crates under the awning and won't be moved for anyone but me.

Smoke is the reason I'm writing, though not the way you'd think. Last Thursday a dragonfly got in under the tarp and spent an hour bumping against the bulb above the stall, green and stupid and beautiful, and Smoke watched it the whole time without moving a whisker. I thought of you, because you always said the dragonflies in Dad's garden were the only thing that ever made you stand still. You could come back for an afternoon and see for yourself. The market is still here. The brass fittings on the gate still stick in wet weather.

I've started keeping the old seed catalogues you left in the drawer, the ones with the hand-coloured plates. Yesterday I found the Iceland poppy, its gold-edged leaves curling round as if they were trying to hold on to something, and it looked just like the drawing you did on the back of the invoice. I've pinned it above the till. If the weather holds, I'll bring a bucket of the orange ones to the flat on Sunday and leave them on the step. Throw them out if you like. Just don't let them rot in the rain before you decide.

Love, Nell