Love script with airplane and heart

The kettle has boiled twice since you rang off, and I still haven't made a cup. I keep standing at the front window, watching the bus shelter as if the Stansted coach might come early out of sheer embarrassment. Your father would have laughed at me. He used to say the only thing faster than a plane leaving is a mother deciding she should have packed one more jumper.

I found your old atlas in the drawer under the phone book. The corner of Lisbon is folded down, and there is a little aeroplane drawn in biro over the river, its wings slightly lopsided, the way you did everything at nine. Beside it you wrote LOVE in your loopy hand, and then you pressed so hard the nib tore the paper. I stood at the sink with it for a long time. I didn't throw it away and I'm not going to.

The sandwiches are in the fridge wrapped in foil, cheese at the front, so eat one before the gate closes. Mrs Okafor next door has promised to water the geranium, though I have told her it doesn't need it and she has told me she does not care what I think. Ring when you land, even if it is three in the morning.

When the engines change their note and the ground starts to tilt, take the window seat and look for the Humber. Your father always said you could see the whole estuary from up there, a brown ribbon with the bridge tied at one end. I'll be at this window pressing my thumb to the glass, and we will both be wrong about how small the distance looks.

All my love, Mum