Tribal spiral and swirl design

The sun came up through the cloud over the harbour wall this morning and looked, for one minute, exactly like the wheel Dad scratched onto the lintel of the net loft the summer before he drowned. I stood on the step with the bread still warm in my apron and watched it spin. You always said the old wheel had teeth because the sea does, and I laughed at you. I am not laughing now.

The boats came in late. Mr Hocking's Brightwater lost her mast off the Gull Rock, and the men had to sit in the lee of the breakwater until the tide turned them round. Ada Penrose brought the word up the hill at seven, shouting before she reached the gate. I have been sweeping the loft floor since, because it gives my hands something to do that is not holding the bread.

Here is the thing I meant to tell you. Last week I went down to the rocks with the lamp and counted the swirls the tide leaves in the wet sand, the long tails that run down towards the water. There were nine of them, and every one curled in towards a little centre, the way the carving does, the way the ribbon on Mum's hat did. I thought it was only the sea being tidy. Now I think it is the sea reminding us where it keeps what it takes.

Come home when the wind drops. Bring the rope you promised. I will leave the lamp lit on the step so you can find the path in the dark, and the wheel above the door will be catching the first of the light, teeth and all.

Your sister, Nell