We sit on a sofa, scattered markers on our laps. The television blasts an episode of Breaking Bad. My brother, in his easy chair, works on his computer. The baby monitor broadcasts my niece’s sweet snores. My sister-in-law Gretchin and I doodle on paper with pens purchased at the craft store an hour before. Morning mail for Ellie. Gretchin has established a tradition, creating a mailbox for Ellie to receive doodles and letters from Mommy each morning. I prepare to join in. I draw my picture of my pugs – first, Alfie and then Waffles, leaving the important message: “Good Morning Ellie, Bee (her name for me) Loves You!” “Hi Ellie, Waffles and Alfie Love You!” She will find them when she awakens and crumple them in her toddler’s tiny hands. The images probably have a short half-life when a toddler’s concerned, but the message, I hope, lasts a lifetime: We love you Ellie. That is the message on which to end each day and begin another anew. It keeps us cuddled on the sofa well passed midnight, drafting these small testaments. Maybe we’ll remember to tell you about your mail someday or maybe we’ll forget – the memory mixing with so many others over time. The specifics won’t really matter, just the hope we plant here: May all your days end and begin with this much love.
