Still Breathing script on the ribs

The new lead type came off the boat from Rotterdam on Tuesday, crated in straw that smelt of the harbour, and Mr Gurney has me sorting it by face before the Lowestoft job goes to press. Among the Caslon I found a semicolon no bigger than a grain of rice, one of the old sorts with its tail worn flat. He wanted it thrown in the melting pot. I kept it in my apron pocket, and I don't know why, except that it looks like a breath held just before the next word.

You'll remember Dad's last letter from the trawler, the one that stopped halfway down the page with the words Still breathing written across the top in his square hand, as if he were telling himself something. Mum read it aloud at the kitchen table and then folded it so the ink wouldn't rub. We thought the sentence had been cut off by the sea. It hadn't. He had simply put the pen down to haul a net, and the next line never got written.

Last night, setting the final column by lamplight, I realised a semicolon is only a promise that the sentence goes on. I set Dad's words in the composing stick, letter by letter, and left the mark at the end where he'd meant to lean on it. Mr Gurney came in, saw what I was doing, and said nothing, which for him is generous.

Come home at Easter. The sea is loud but the presses are louder, and there's a bench with your name on it.

Love, Ruth