I sent The Boy a Valentine's Card. And a book. We exchange books. I read a book a few weeks ago, I thought he'd enjoy it, so I mailed it to him shortly thereafter. Simple as that.
Snail mail works in mysterious and painstakingly long ways, and so he got them over a week later, and then yesterday, yesterday, among the junk mail and wrong addresses and my childhood friend's wedding invitation: a card from The Boy. He made me a Valentine's Card.
I'm crafty, I make things. Before Boston, I kept a running stream of handmade postcards on hand to send to him. Post-Boston, the flow slowed, slowed, stopped. But I thought a Valentine's Card would be a nice gesture, so I made him one. And then the aforementioned book.
He sent me a heart card with a silly poem. A sweet poem.
I had to stash it away because the Doctor came over only moments later.
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