Even though Emily's in college, I still enjoy the misspelled-early chicken-scratch handwriting I saved and taped in various spots around the house. We have a clothes-shoot in the laundry room where years ago I placed an "I luve yoo Mommy" message on the inside of the little metal door. Nothing takes the edge off the heinous task of doing laundry than seeing that memory smiling back at me. I draw encouragement when I'm about to make cookies when I see Mom's confident loops and even lines on the recipe card. And when I face possible electrocution before jump starting my car battery, I can easily consult the correct page in the vehicle's manual with the decades-old-homemade-birthday card my dad made that I've left in there as a bookmark. I'm comforted by my Dad characteristic last line, "I loved you first" written in his nearly illegible cursive handwriting.
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