The Letter

She sat quietly with pencil and paper

while her mother did the ironing.

It was common practise for the child.

She often enjoyed drawing.

But today she didn’t sketch, she scribbled,

making neat loops between the lines.

“I’m writing a letter to Nana,” she said.

“'Because I really miss her sometimes.”

Her tiny tongue writhed around, in and out,

of her pursed rosebud mouth

as she thought of the things that she wanted to say

then carefully wrote them out.

She must’ve had a whole lot to tell

for she’d soon filled up three foolscap pages

of beautiful loops neatly strung in a row.

Then she focused on it for ages.

She curled round her finger a golden blonde lock

and gently pulled at her hair.

Then for a while her deep sea green eyes

stared vacantly into the air.

The pencil was waved around and around

as she sat there contemplating.

Then her shoes drummed the table in rhythmic tattoo

as she returned to her creation.

She wriggled a bit, between lots of head scratching,

and carefully looked over her letter.

Her cute freckled nose wrinkled up while her mind

decided if she could be neater.

She gnawed a little on the end of the lead.

Holding the paper, she rocked to and fro.

And then with a shrug of her four year old shoulders

resolved it was ready to go.

To the editor that is.  For she slipped off her chair

and carried the missive to Mother.

“Before we post it, I want to be sure,

(but I don’t want to be a bother,)

that Nana will understand what I’ve said,”

she quietly asked Mum’s deciphering.

“Would you read it to me?  I’m only little you see. 

So I can only write reading, I can’t yet read writing.”