Small snowflake tattoo on the neck

The first snow came in before five this morning, while the boats were still tied up and the lamps on the quay were burning yellow against it. You will say it was only sleet, and you would be partly right, but Mr Pascoe at the chandlery held a flake up on his dark coat sleeve and swore it was the proper thing, six arms and fine as lace. He said you could count every branch with a pin. I didn't try. I just stood in the doorway with the cold coming in around my ankles and watched it go.

You know how Mum used to tell us every flake was different and nobody had ever checked. I thought of that while I swept the step. The gulls were sulking on the rail and the fish man kept saying it would be gone by noon, which is what he says about everything, including your leaving. The harbour wall has a fresh white line along its top now, like someone has drawn it with chalk and then thought better of it. Dad would have liked that. He always said a harbour should look a bit unfinished in winter.

I went looking for something to send you, because the post is the only thing that keeps arriving on time here. In the back of the ferry timetable you left on the dresser I found a clean square of paper and folded it the way Gran taught us, corner to corner, then again, and cut until something opened out. It has six arms. I checked them against the lamp, and two of them are a little longer than the others, which I've decided is character.

I've pinned it to the net curtain above the sink, where the light comes through. Don't let the envelope crush the arms. If it arrives in one piece, you can tell the city what snow looks like in a proper harbour town.