perfect and adored, sat behind her eyelids, never more than a blink away. She pictured their minute fingers splayed against her stretched, white skin, where tiny blue veins meandered towards their seeking, rosebud mouths; she watched their eyelids fall slowly in long, lazy blinks, tummies full, ready to doze. Her gut would contract with the familiar feeling of yearning, not unlike when she was feeding. If she could only go back to that time and find the courage…
The steady slap of flip-flops on the linoleum floor told Kate it was time for the post. The slovenly girl whose job it was to deliver the mail slowed her cart as she approached and flicked through a stack of manila envelopes. Kate could always sense when a letter was heading her way. She smiled as she pictured her sister scribbling at her little desk in between mouthfuls of coffee and the wiping down of counter tops. Lovely Francesca.
The post-girl flung an envelope through the open door and onto Kate’s bed. Having never received one herself, the girl had little idea of how much joy and distraction a letter could bring.
‘Thank you.’ Kate was sincere.
The girl gave the briefest of nods. She wasn’t in it for the thanks; it was all about the few pence she received for her troubles.
Like a connoisseur savouring a fine wine or a good cheese, Kate had learned not to rush the process. She always delayed the opening, holding the envelope, scrutinising the seal and feeling the weight before examining the spidery script of the address. She discreetly put her thumb over her prison number written in black ink in the top left-hand corner; she ignored the thin strip of glue that had already been lifted so that the contents could be scanned and the word ‘AUTHORISED’ stamped in red ink across the flap. For a second or two, she could dismiss the thought that a prison official had already devoured gossip intended only for her and pretend she was somewhere else, receiving news and enjoying the connection with the rest of the world.
Kate turned the innocuous brown rectangle over in her palm until it lay flat against her hand. Her heart jumped. It wasn’t the meandering script of her sister’s fountain pen that stared back at her, but the unmistakable tiny, precise strokes of her daughter’s hand.
‘Oh! It’s from my daughter!’
Kate didn’t know who she was shouting to, her words were almost involuntary. The joy bubbled from her throat.
‘Good for you, love,’ came the indifferent reply from a neighbouring cell.
It was only the second letter she had received from Lydia in three years. Kate had all but worn out the thin sheet of its predecessor. This precious new talisman would provide her with hours of reflection. Each word would very quickly be committed to memory, but the text and its meaning were not enough. To hold the piece of paper and trace the words that her little girl’s fingers had rested on connected her in a way that recall alone could not. To inhale the paper which revealed the vaguest hint of her daughter’s fragrance, transferred from the lightest touch to her wrist, was an indescribable pleasure. Kate read and reread the two pages at least twenty times that day. Other readings on future days would become part of her routine.
Gosh, Mum,
Nearly three years, it’s gone so quickly. Francesca’s still completely bonkers, but brilliant and reminds me a lot of you. I can see some of your traits in her and vice versa. I guess I’d never spent enough time with her before to notice. She has the same voice as you and when I first came here, if I heard her on the phone or she’d call me down to dinner, I’d get really upset. But I’m used to it now and sometimes I make out it is you downstairs cooking my tea and it makes me smile.
Kate stopped reading to mop at the tears that fogged her vision. She pictured the countless times she’d called up the stairs, ‘Supper’s ready, kids!’, to hear them thundering down either laughing or arguing. How she missed dishing up their meals, hearing their moans, watching as they tucked into their food, spilt drinks on the tablecloth and scraped their shoes against the wooden floor.
College is amazing! Learning loads and when they set me new assignments I think, oh goody! Whereas a lot of my friends just get pissed off with the workload. I think this means I love it