Crescent moon and sun on upper back

The lamp man came round again this morning asking after you, and I told him you were asleep, which is what I tell everybody now because it's the only time you're anywhere I can find you. Mam says you come up at seven looking like a ghost, grey from the dust, your eyes like two holes burned in a blanket. I've started leaving the kettle on the back ring so it's hot when you get in. I hear you come up the lane at ten past, boots first, then the gate.

Your old chalk tin is on the mantel now. Mrs Ashby's boy brought the moon back from the joiner's, the one you asked him to cut for the lintel over the door, and it's sitting in the window where the sun should be. I know you meant it for the back of the coal cart, to match the one you painted on Jack's barrow, but I liked it there. The sun sits in the curve of it like it's been tucked into bed, and when the light comes through the glass the whole room looks like it's had a proper night.

Dorothy's man says there's a fall at number three face and they're taking the men out in turns. He said it like a joke. I told him there's nothing funny about a face that gives way, and he went red and found something to do with his hands. Sleep well when you can, and come home with your lungs clean and your hands whole. I'll pour the tea and pretend I didn't wait up.

Love, Ruth