Ribbon bow and scroll with script on thigh

The snow came over the pass on Tuesday, a week early, and I have had the stove lit since. Your father would have grumbled at the cost of the wood, but he is not here to grumble, so I burn it. The blue ribbon you left on the hook by the door is still there. I thought about putting it in the drawer with your birth note, but I did not. It has faded to the colour of a bruise going yellow at the edges, which is how you will probably remember it too.

Mrs Aldous from the post house came up the switchbacks yesterday with her mule and a bundle of letters from the valley. Among them was one from the midwife in Sankt Anna, the one who caught you in that storm. A girl in the city has asked her to find out where her mother's people came from, and she has written the old family name in the margin with a question mark. I have not answered it yet. Some questions ought to wait for a warmer road.

The carver from Brenner finished the scroll over the lintel. He knotted a bow at the top, the way you tied your boots as a boy, and let the words run down toward the step. The curls are too large, but it suits the house. Read it when the wind is bad and you will see what I mean. I gave you life in a cold room with the shutters banging, and you gave me a reason to keep lighting that stove every morning, even when the pass is shut and nobody comes.

Write when the road opens. Bring the good salt.

Mama