Daisy and stem on upper chest

The rain came in sideways again at half past eight, and Mr Okafor from the fish stall had to tie his awning down with baling twine before the whole lot lifted off towards the bus station. I stood my buckets under the lip of the corn exchange and sold nothing for an hour. Then a woman in a yellow mac asked for something cheap that would last until Sunday, and I gave her the last of the good daisies with the thick green stems. She said they looked like they'd been painted on.

The one I've kept back is the single stem with the two buds, the one that bent over in the bucket as if it was listening. Its head is open right out, the middle gone dark as stewed tea. I told myself I'd keep it for the windowsill at home, but really I was waiting for you to ring, and you haven't, so I'm telling you instead. You always said I'd never make money from flowers because I talk to them.

The buds have been stubborn all week. They won't open in water. They just sit there looking sure of themselves, which is more than I can say for the rest of us. Mum's bench has been rained on so often the plaque has gone soft, and the man at the parks office says he'll get round to it in the spring. I don't mind waiting. Everything worth having round here seems to come with a bit of a wait.

I'll leave the stem in the jar by the back door with the water changed, for when you come. If the buds are still shut tight by then, we'll open them together, or we won't and I'll just say you were right about the rain. Love, Nell.

P.S. Bring a proper coat.