Two adult elephants and a calf on an arm

The ovens were already ticking when I came in at half four, and Mr Okafor had propped the back door open with a bread tin, which you know I hate. Inside, the flour sacks sat stacked like sleeping sheep and the first batch of tins was rising under their cloths. I stood a minute by the proving cupboard listening to the bakery wake up before I tied my apron. I thought of you the whole walk down Mill Lane, the way you used to grab my hand past the railings and refuse to let go even when the grass was soaking.

Something happened at the end of yesterday's bake that I want to tell you about. Mr Okafor had three cobs left on the long tray, two big ones and a small one that had sulked in the proof and come out lopsided. He was going to sling it in the bin for the birds. I asked if I could have it instead, and he laughed and said the pigeons would be grateful.

I didn't take it home. I put the three of them side by side on the cooling rack by the window, the small one in the middle, its crust just touching the big ones on either side, the way the loaves had spread against each other in the oven. Then I went to fetch the flour scoop, and when I came back the light had come up grey over the car park and the cobs looked like they were walking somewhere together, all of them leaning the same way.

I've put the little one on the sill for you. It's still a bit warm if you hold it, or it was when I started this letter. Come home at Easter and we'll eat it with butter and tell Dad off for the back door.

Love, Mum