Peony and foliage shoulder tattoo

The peonies came up under the lamp this year, which Mother said they never would, salt wind and all. I have cut the first heads for the kitchen table and they sit in the blue jug, grey in this light, the way the pencil drawings in your old sketchbook went grey when the rain got in. The big one at the front has opened so wide its petals have begun to fold back on themselves, and the little bud beside it still refuses, hard as a walnut, as if it has decided summer is none of its business.

Father has the lamp on the new timer now, so I climb up at dusk with the oil can and the tin of matches, though the glass has been cleaned so often there is hardly anything left to clean. From the gallery you can see the whole headland, the lane going down to the harbour, and the Mallory boat coming in low with its sails furled. I count the lights of the boats each night the way you used to count gulls. Eleven came in last week. Only nine went out, but I have not told Father that, and I will not tell him now.

Pressing the blooms is the only thing that keeps my hands still. I lay a petal between the pages of the almanac for each man on the list we keep by the door, and the colour bleeds into the printed tide tables until the two cannot be told apart. Tell me the sea is kind where you are. Tell me you have seen something green. I will keep the lamp burning for you until the wick is ash and then start again.

Your loving sister, Nell