Growing up, my mom’s best friend’s mom kind of adopted us kids. She lived out of state and was a little bit loony, or so I thought back then. She would send me boxes just like that, for my birthday each year. We called her Grandma Pat and we would joke about her whenever the mailman dropped a box on the porch. She also filled everything with confetti that went everywhere when we opened the boxes. I don’t think mom ever got it all out of the carpet.

I made fun of her, too. But my first birthday following her death I was inconsolable. Her presence was missing and it was devastating.

I wish you many more boxes of crap.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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