13 Lowfield Road. Walking past the letter box, I think of you. With nowhere to send my letters. Kind and gentle you were. Never speaking, always words on a page, and how at ten I never knew. News of your passing met with tears and misunderstanding. No more letters would I send. Sitting on your couch I see you rolling your cigarettes, and a ten year old beside you. There’s a stale smell of smoke, braces and a stick, but they don’t see you like I do. 13 Lowfield Road, the place I sent my letters.