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Write in books.

I am reading a book my mother mailed me a year or so ago, and the scribbles and jottings and underlines, the notes in the margins, the asterisks and exclamation points and her inimitable handwriting, are nearly enough to make me cry.

I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because, as someone recently reminded me, so much of our correspondence is so ephemeral (who sends letters through the mail anymore? Unless you print out your words they will all disappear, and likely sooner rather than later; servers go down, computers crash, and we all know how fragile CDs are); perhaps it’s just because of the mood I’m in, but I love that this book is one I can keep, and love that it’s been made so much more rich by her thoughts.

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