Large outlined block lettering across upper back

Mum says you've gone quiet again, so I'm writing this on the back of a delivery slip, which is the only paper in the flat that isn't a bill. The bridge at Holbeck is finished, or near enough. Dez came round with the cans on Sunday and went up the far pier with his torch between his teeth, and by dark he'd put the outlines of the whole word up in black, every letter as tall as the arches. He ran out of fill before he could get to the colour, and there's a cold wind off the canal that gets into the paint, so he left it like that and said we'd come back.

I went down on the Tuesday to see it in daylight. Without the fill it looks like the ribs of something, or a word somebody drew in the dust of a car window and then forgot. You can read it from the towpath if you know what it's meant to say. The man with the dog stopped and tried, got it wrong, and laughed at himself, and that made me want to be the one to finish it.

So I've bought the tins with my wages from the chippy. Saturday, before the light goes, I'm taking the yellow and the rust and the bit of green you always said was too loud. I'll start in the middle where the lines are thickest, because that's where Dez's hand was surest, and work out to the edges. If the council come, I'll tell them I'm restoring something.

Come if you can. Bring the stepladder from Grandad's shed. I've left your name on the last letter in pencil, so you'll know which one is yours.

Love, Jo