Hourglass and rose with 'Time does not heal'

The hall smells of wet cut grass and the florist has put the roses in the wrong vases, so I am writing this on the back of the seating plan while Mum argues with the caterer about the lamb. Nan's hourglass is on the table by the door where you left it, the one with the brass cap worn smooth by her thumb. Dad wanted it in the photographs. I said no, it looks like a funeral, and then I spent twenty minutes last night finding a bag of dry sand under the stairs to refill it with, so you can tell me what that makes me.

Remember what she used to say when we fought over the last biscuit? Time does not heal, Ellie, it only moves the furniture. She had a banner tattooed on her forearm the year she turned seventy-one, a bit of sentimental nonsense from a parlour in Margate, and she swore she had it done so she could read it while she buttered her toast. I laughed at her. I laughed at most things she said, which I now think was the wrong way round.

So the sand is running and I do not know what to say to you about Saturday. Gemma is lovely and frightened, and she has asked me twice whether the rose should go on the cake or on the order of service. I told her both. I told her Nan would have wanted the rose to be the thing nobody had to explain.

Ring me when you land. Bring the good cufflinks from the drawer, not the ones you bought at the airport.

Love, Ellie