Dear Julia:
I'm glad to inform you that your mother is a passionate woman. I'm slightly less glad to inform you that she's also occasionally very prickly. I'm trying to eschew such things, but it takes time, and effort, and... something else that I can't see.
Don't worry, baby girl. I'll have it figured out before you get here.
My love, she speaks like silence,
Without ideals of violence
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true like ice, like fire.
Live in me, little spirit. Wake in me, fire my breastbone, whisper in my ear, make me a better wife to your dad.
I got a plush Lorax for Jeremy. He's ecstatic. He gave me a look that shook me to the soles of my feet, his beautiful eyes, his smile when it's real, so real it blinds. It's these little things that save us, baby, gifts for no reason, raspberries at midnight, notes left on the pillow, dinners out that we can't afford. My mother taught me this, and I'll teach you: you're only ever as poor as you act. You might not have anything in the fridge, but go ahead and buy that daffodil bouquet with your last dollar. It's these tiny luxuries that make life worth living, wealth worth having. Ten thousand dollars won't do you shit-all if you aren't willing to give up every bit of it for a taste of what really matters.
Oh yeah... and your mommy has a high-flown hole-in-the-head imagination, and a turn of phrase when she tries like the sun in your eyes, and a filthy fucking mouth. And I swear to god I'll give it all to you.
Love you, little wonder.
