Sun and script lettering tattoos on the back

The lift in Carrick House has been out since Tuesday, so I've been climbing to the eleventh floor with the shopping and a bad hip, and I keep thinking you'd have laughed at me huffing on the landings. Your nephew Kieran says the council will fix it by Friday. He said that about the boiler too.

Mum's sun is still on the kitchen window. You know the one, the cardboard circle with the rays she cut out for your ninth birthday, which she stuck up with Sellotape and never took down. The light comes through it at about half seven and throws a shape across the lino, like a little cracked moon. I stand in it with my tea before the bus. It's the only thing in this flat that has ever stayed where she put it.

I went to the tattoo place on Sidney Street on Saturday. The lad there asked what I wanted and I said the words from her, the ones she used to sing when the power went off. He drew it freehand, the rays going out in long thin strokes, and he kept the script loose so it looked like her handwriting on the back of an envelope. I didn't tell him that was why. He only charged me twenty quid because I cried at the second bit.

Come up at Easter. Bring the good scissors. I'll show you where it sits, though you'll have to take my word for it, the mirror's cracked too.