Walk by faith script on the ankle

The path you asked about is finished, though not the way Dad drew it. He wanted York stone laid straight from the gate to the greenhouse, and I told him a straight path is only useful to people who can see where they are going. So I set the slabs in a bend, where the old pear tree leans over and hides the shed. Mrs Okafor from number nine came round on Saturday with her white stick and walked the whole length without once touching the fence. She said the ground told her where to put her feet, and I said that was more than most of us managed.

Half the stones came out of the skip behind the Co-op. The one nearest the gate is cracked clean through, so I left it cracked. Every morning I step over it and think of whoever broke it, though I will never know the story beyond what the shopkeeper told me. You set one stone, check the level, and then go on to the next without looking back at the one you got wrong. That is most of gardening, and I suspect most of everything else.

Mrs Okafor says she will come again in spring when the lavender is out. I have promised her a bench at the end of the bend, facing the sun, so she can sit and smell the rows without having to find her way to them. I have not finished the bench. The wood is still in the shed under the sacking, and I keep telling myself the weather is wrong for sawing.

Come up at the weekend if you can. Bring your boots. I would like you to walk it with me, the proper way, and tell me honestly where it runs crooked.

Love, Aunt Joan