Matching sisters heart tattoos on calf and ankle

The ferry was cancelled again on Tuesday, so I have had time to read your last letter three times and the timetable once, which is the only thing on Vatersay that stays where you put it. Mum asked after you at the shop. I said you were fine, that Glasgow suits you, that your flat has a window onto a real street. She said that was the sort of thing people say when they mean the opposite, and I did not argue, because she is right and I hate it.

Dad's boat is still on the slip. Hamish from next door has been taking the nets out for him, and the gulls have been at the bait box again. I climbed the dune behind the church on Sunday with the dog and sat where we used to sit, counting the lights on the mainland until the cold got into my hands. Eleven, if you were wondering. Twelve when the evening boat comes in.

I went over to Oban on Thursday and did the thing we promised at fifteen, the small open heart and the word beside it, the one you said we would only ever get if we both were brave enough to sit still. The woman with the grey plait worked quickly and didn't ask why. It stung more than either of us expected. I want you to know mine is done now. Yours is the one you said you would book, so book it before you lose your nerve.

Come home for the midsummer dance, or don't, but tell me which, because I am tired of setting a place for you that stays empty.

Your sister always, Kirsty