Dear Pop. My relationship with you, perhaps, has been complex in a different way than it was with mom, who was severely ill for seventeen years until she passed.
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Mommy. I didn’t think i’d say this but: I miss you. It’s weird because you were severely ill for seventeen years of my life.
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Today I had a daydream . . . I dreamed of a world where the common news is curated not by adults that are already weary . . .
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It’s the little sweet things, that contain a seed in them. The seed of wonder, of truth, of a whole depth of experience that can hardly be told in words.
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