Ornate lotus design in ink

The lotus opened on Tuesday, the morning after the frost lifted off the tub, and I stood in my dressing gown with the kettle screaming behind me because I could not believe it had survived the winter in a washing-up bowl. You told me to throw it out in October. I didn't, and I'm writing to say you were wrong about that and right about nearly everything else.

The bud came up through the black silt like a fist unclenching. Each petal wore its own pattern: scrolls curling at the tips, little looped rings along the edges, and in the centre a seed pod like a pale lantern, its dots pricked in by someone very patient. Mr Okafor from number nine came round with his reading glasses and said it looked like a drawing rather than a plant. I told him that was the trouble with the good ones.

I keep thinking of Mum's embroidery frame, the one she left in the loft with a half-finished lotus stitched in indigo thread. She counted every stitch with her lips moving. I never learned that patience. I bought the bowl from the market on Saturday for three pounds, and it has taken me a week to admit I wanted it for her.

So come at the weekend and bring the frame, and we'll finish what she started. The pond can wait, since the water is warm enough now for both of us. Love, Farida