Fine line script word tattoo on ribs and back

The lorry came through on Tuesday with your guitar case still tied to the back of it, so I know you did not get far before you turned round, though nobody in the Crown will tell me which road you took. Mrs Pryce at the post office says the Bristol train left half empty. I have stopped asking anyone and started writing instead, which is what you always said I should do when the kitchen got too quiet.

The hens are laying again. Dad fixed the gate hinge with a bent nail and a good deal of swearing, and I have kept the lamp in the front window the way you asked, though the oil is dear and Mrs Pryce has opinions about that too. Last Sunday I walked up to the chalk pit alone and sat where we sat the summer you taught me the three chords, and I tried them over, badly, the way you would have laughed at.

I am not writing to ask you back. I am writing because on Friday a man came through with a travelling picture show, and he had your name in his mouth, the wrong way round, and when he sang the chorus I heard it in your voice as clearly as I hear the kettle now. I went behind the tent and cried into a feed sack like a fool.

So here is the truth, plain as I can make it. Come home or do not, but when you sign anything again, sign it the way you signed my birthday card, with that loop under the last letter, so I know it is you and not some stranger wearing your handwriting.

Yours, always, Mags