Matching red poppy wrist tattoos

The frost came down so hard on Tuesday that the water trough split clean across, and Dad swore at it the way he swears at weather he can't argue with. I'm writing because you asked about the poppies, and because the seed tin finally came out from under the stairs.

The field behind the top barn went red every June when we were small, before Gran sold the ploughing rights to the Pembertons. You used to lie in the stubble picking the buds and popping them open like party favours. I kept one bud from the last summer you were home, pressed flat in the back of the almanac. It's still there, the colour of brick under rain. I've sown the rest in a tray on the windowsill. Mum says it's daft in February, but the seed needs the cold before it will wake, or so the packet insists.

Here's the odd thing. Two of the seedlings came up faster than the others, one sturdy and one thin as cotton thread. I couldn't tell which was which until I measured them against the ruler. The sturdy one leans towards the window. The thin one leans towards the sturdy one. I left them in the same tray, which I suppose is how we were raised, though nobody ever taught us that.

Ring me when the thaw comes, and bring your muddy boots. The big one will be ready to plant by Easter, and the little one will come along when it's good and ready. I'll keep the tin on the kitchen table until then.

Your loving sister, Bea