Forget-me-not sprig on the forearm

The river here runs so cold that my fingers ache within a minute of dipping them, but the banks are thick with small blue flowers, five petals each, a yellow eye at the middle of every one. The men call them nothing at all. I asked the old woman who sells us eggs, and she laughed and said her grandmother named them for soldiers who go off to war and forget the ones at home. I thought of you at once, so I picked a sprig and pressed it between two boards in my satchel, where the damp cannot quite get at it.

Forgive the crooked stem. The water kept pulling at my hands while I cut it, and one leaf tore clean away. I have kept the other, and both are folded inside this letter so you will not lose them when the courier shakes the bag.

Do not think I have forgotten the orchard at Ostia or the blue of your good shawl. The centurion says we will be relieved by spring, though he has said that every spring since I arrived. When the wall is finished I shall ask for leave, and I will bring you something sensible, a comb or a silver pin, and I will tell you all of this again, badly, with my hands moving.

Until then, keep the ledger for me. Count the grain twice. And remember that I am still counting the days, though I have stopped writing them on the wall of my tent.