Vertical Japanese script down the spine

The ice let go of the cut on Tuesday, and by Wednesday the first moorhen was diving under the bow as if it had paid for the water. I've been meaning to tell you about the tin. It was under the bench where your father kept the spare windlass, rusted at the hinges, and inside were some bus tickets, a lock key with no lock, and a card in his pencil. Four lines of Japanese, written small and careful, the sort of hand he used for chandlery lists.

I took it to the library in Banbury because Mrs Okafor at the desk reads everything aloud to herself. She ran her finger down the column the way you'd check a lock gate, then read it out slowly. You, who want to spread your wings and fly. She said it was a line from a song, or maybe a poem, she couldn't be sure. He never once mentioned Japan to me. He never mentioned wings either, unless you count the swans he used to shoo off the lock landing.

I've sat with the card most of the week. I think he copied it the winter he sold the second boat and decided he'd stay put on the cut, the way a man decides things he can't say out loud. It wasn't meant for me. It was a note to himself that he never took. So I'm taking it out of the tin now and sending it to you, to that city where the planes go over. Don't wait for the weather to suit you. The water never does.