Pip
“Hated the water. Loved the pier. Sat at the very end of it for eleven years.”
Pip came with the house, which is to say she was already sitting on the porch the day the keys were handed over, and she saw no reason to change anything about that arrangement. She never swam. She walked the pier every morning to inspect the fishermen, accepted exactly one prawn per visit, and returned home with her tail up like a small flag. When the pier was closed for repairs one winter she sat at the gate and complained until spring.
Pictures of Pip, kept by the person who raised this memorial.
Whispers left here
Small messages from visitors — a candle in words. 2 so far.
Every prawn I ever bought was for you, and we both knew it.
The end of the pier is very quiet now. She was the only one allowed to loiter.
Some things are easier to say later. Seal a letter for Pip and choose the day it opens — it stays unread until then, even from this side of the garden.
No letters yet. The first one can be yours — a few lines for a date that does not exist yet.