Cherry blossom branch on lower back

The cherry by the harbour office came out a fortnight early, and Mr Pearce from the chandlery says it's the warm wind off the south, though Nan would have said the tree knew you'd be gone. I've pressed a branch between the pages of Mum's hymn book so it arrives in one piece, so don't go shaking the envelope about on the quay like you did with the last one. Half the petals had gone brown by the time I cut it, but the buds are still tight and red at the tips, like they're holding their breath.

The fleet went out on Tuesday on the four o'clock tide. I stood on the wall until the Sea Lion was just a smudge past the breakwater, and Dad's old oilskin was still hanging on the hook where you left it. I mended it instead. Three patches, all the wrong colours, but it keeps the wind out. Jenny Morrow's mother asked after you at the Co-op and I said you were fine and eating properly, which you aren't, so eat properly.

Here's the thing I wanted to tell you. Pearce says the buds on a branch like this open in order, lowest first, and a fellow who was at sea for a month once counted them to keep track of his days. So I've left you the count. There are eleven buds on the piece I sent. Eleven days, if the weather holds and Skipper doesn't take the long way round the Dogger again.

When you get back the blossom will be over, but the tree will still be standing by the office, and so will I, with the kettle on.

Love, Ruth