Winged swirl tattoo on the lower back

The rain came in sideways again this morning and the pitch at Castle Market looked like a drowned pier. Mrs Okafor's awning gave up before nine, so I've been sitting under the tarp with your old cardboard box of wrought iron, the bits Dad never got round to fixing. You'll remember the pair of gate finials, the ones with the curled ends that look like they're trying to take off. I finally sorted them. They're identical, mirror to mirror, which is why Dad liked them so much. He used to say a thing should be the same on both sides or it's lying to you.

A man in a wet anorak stopped by at eleven and asked whether they were for sale. He wanted one, not both. I told him they only worked together and he looked at me as if I'd said the rain was personal. He bought the left one anyway, for his allotment gate, and said he'd come back for the other once he'd worked out what to do with it. I don't think he will. I put the right-hand scroll on the shelf behind the till, where the lamp hits the rust and makes it look almost copper.

Here is what I keep thinking about. Dad welded the two halves at the point where the curls meet, a little V of iron that holds them together, and he never once let me help with that bit. I thought it was because he didn't trust me with the torch. Now I think he wanted the join to be his alone, so that whoever held the other half would know exactly where it belonged.

Come home when your ship's in. I'll keep the shelf clear and the lamp on. Love, Nell