There is a letter in her own hand, the script strangely like my own. It is polite and friendly, skirting the danger she must have felt when posting it in front of her father as she passed him at the front porch letterbox.
There is the box of simple cookies ( baked under his supervision for the church luncheon) that never made it to the fellowship hall. She packed them in a leftover Christmas tin with bright Santas and snowmen and tucked a paper dollie inside as if to say, "See how…
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