Paper Pieces
Jason Jackson
She’s reading the letter, the baby asleep in the cot beside her. This room is where she feels most comfortable now. In the other bedroom, the bed is still unmade and there’s a coffee mug from Wednesday, or perhaps Tuesday, on the floor. She steps around it when she goes in for a t-shirt, some clean knickers, when she goes to sleep.
It’s mid-afternoon – the silence is an exhaled breath – and the blue blind is pulled halfway down to shield the baby from the sun. The window is dusted with a thin film, and she can still see where she held the baby’s finger against the pane, traced a tiny aeroplane’s line of flight.
She can still hear their laughter.
The letter is dated three days ago. It was lying on the mat this morning, the first handwritten letter she’s ever
