january 9.

Day 9. 
a gift in your hand

love letters from my dad.  all of them folded in half and hand written on his personal stationary.  why, oh why, didn’t i keep all of them?  how could i not have known how precious they would be?

a gift you walked by

happy early birthday to me from a man who loves him a good smoothie and who will find out soon enough that we’ve already spent nine hundred and thirty two dollars and sixteen cents on fruit.  Or almost.

a gift you sat with

could there be a better thing in the whole wide world than a squishy kid on the stool next to me with spinach smoothie all over her face and finger painting my counters with her sausage?  could there?

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