Small revolver tattoo on the side torso

The tent came down in Wigan on Sunday and nobody cried, which I suppose is the worst sign of all. Pa has sold the elephant to a man from Blackpool who promised it a pond. The lions went with the menagerie wagon. What's left is me, the Colonel, and his old Colt with the walnut grip, the one he never let anyone else hold.

You'll remember the last act, how the lamps dropped and the Colonel stood with his back to the canvas while I held the apple above his head. He never once missed. Not in Leeds, not in the rain at Hull. I used to think the gun did the work, but it was only a bit of steel that had learned to be still.

Yesterday he took it apart on the kitchen table in the winter lodgings, laying each piece on a clean tea towel like a surgeon. The cylinder came out, then the hammer. He held the frame up to the window and said the blue had gone from it the same year as the tent. Then he asked me to take it to the pawnbroker on Mill Street. I said I would. I haven't yet.

This morning I left the cylinder on the windowsill. The sun came through the chambers and laid six small, patient shadows across the sill. Come home for Christmas if you can. Bring nothing. I'll be the one in the back row, still watching the sky for an apple that won't fall.

Your sister, June