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?