Strength script with hearts on wrist

The Conference pears came down all at once this week, and Dad would not let anyone near the long ladder until the wind dropped, so I have been on my knees in the grass with a bushel basket, sorting the bruised from the sound. Mrs Pryce from the cottage came up with lemonade and stood at the gate telling me I looked like Mum, which I took as a compliment because I think she meant it as one.

Mum's old recipe box turned up in the back of the barn behind the cider press. You would laugh at what she kept in it. Receipts for chutney, a bus ticket from 1974, and a card with a single word written across the front in her looping hand: Strength. There were hearts drawn in the corners in the faded red ink she used for birthdays. I don't think it was meant for anyone. It was tucked under the lid like a note to herself.

I spent an evening at the kitchen table trying to decide whether it was a reminder or a dare. Dad says she copied it from a calendar, but I don't believe him. The loops are too careful for a calendar.

Next morning I walked the rows with the card in my pocket and pressed it flat against the bark of the old Bramley, the one she used to climb. Then I went up the ladder myself, slow and stupid, and picked the last of the apples that were ready. Come home when the cider's racked. Bring your good boots, and bring the card back if you want it. I'll keep the box.

Love, Nell