and there was a green one, my favorite color.

I remember when my mamma and I played mailbox, hand-written notes flowed like a conveyer, no confetti ... and oh how you used to call me using my middle name too, it was precious as everyday topics (though ideas were heightened, attaching poetry plugs.)  letters were cursive even if scribbled, and I kept them day and night.  this box was as an attic, with a key, decorated with cats and daisies, to quiet the sound of moods with meows.

on Sunday, three months later, I tried to go through crates and memories to see what I had.  my head caught sight of one of them, and I bent down to look closer.  it was heavy, but appeared cheery and white, but I could not see the pattern, for it was covered with a sort of dust.  I decided to open it.  I saw, "dear Daisy's" and "dear Mamma's" with parentheses to dress the greeting, for that's what we always did.  I had forgotten the meaning of collecting every single one and there was almost no room to stack papers anymore.

I made a game of "UPS" and planned to put many notebook pages in this binder at a time, and 'send' it back and forth, hoping to 'clean house.'  at this moment, my feelings were compressed so much I couldn't go forward like the papers laying around, from her becoming too painfully busy to respond.  but, of course we still wrote each other, (and talked outside of the game.)

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my daddy drew faces and words also, for me, usually everyday, and I can quote him saying, "I learned in art many years ago that the best kind is where you don't try to be descriptive too much, but just let your mood catch the pace of a sketch."  I laughed humorously - but also disregarded that complete specialness in a way as I threw each one away after 'it was done.'  (except for the extremely fancy ones once in a while)

a mellowing of life.

Daddy kept saying his heart was feelin' bad, which I began to worry about as his little girl.  we started running everyday, and we looked at trees, went to see the mallard ducks in the warm river and watch them take off like tiny airplanes, laughed and talked about spiritual things.  sometimes it was 0 degrees outside or so.  that was existence, with vigor.

but there was a morning that was different than any other.  because my daddy generally writes his home-made cards to me upon leaving if I'm not up yet, and he was still here when I walked in right after he freshly doodled a sketched note, he chuckled and asked, "should I throw this away?"  I condensed "NO!"  then, convertedly he added, "you should always keep these, so you have a bit of biography to remember me if I die."  Penetrated, I immediately went to my bedroom looking for a folder, in my reserved collection, so I'd never forget where they all were.  and there was a green one, my favorite color.

I thought back to when I almost was going to discard personal sharings between my mamma and me as well.

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Dear Mamma ~ (your name flows like a river to me, your name, to no one else)

There may be many worries overlapping the days, making it hard to slow down and appreciate every little thing from the past, together, however remember just one: I so want to thank you for not carrying through with my thinking it was excessive to keep each letter from you, me . . . I am very sorry, and am trying to change such attitude.  I do not want you or Daddy to die for me to take in a deep breath and feel them as characteristic.

I hope you read this, Mamma, and as a cloudless night let our love keep being rebuilt, shickumalou, I love you,
Your Daughter Daisy