Crescent moon filled with flowers

The rain came over the market at half five, just as Mr Abara was pulling in his awnings, and by six the gutters on Tanner Row were running like the Wey in spring. I stood under the sign with a bucket and watched the moon on it go soft. Dad painted that crescent the summer before he went, all those tiny dots along the outer edge, so the dark fades into the cream the way the night does. The flowers he left open and white in the middle, because he said a blossom wants room to breathe. Thirty years of weather and it still holds its shape.

Tonight a boy came by with a cardboard tray of cuttings he'd dug from the railway embankment. Rounded leaves, a few buds not yet split. He asked if I'd take the lot for two pounds. I gave him five and told him to go and get dry. He looked at me as if I'd lost my wits, but I think he'll remember it, the way I remember the first time Dad let me hold the brush.

Here's what I didn't say on the phone. I'm taking the sign down on Saturday. The council wants the stall gone for the new cycle lanes, and the man from the agency says they'll paint over it with a coffee logo. So I need you to bring the long ladder and help me unscrew it. We'll carry it home and hang it in the back bedroom, where the light comes in from the west and the dots catch the evening.

Bring the thermos and wear your boots. It's going to be wet again.

Love, Maddy