Drops of blood, a little each day, have become my love letters to you. Scraps from labors rendered, meals paid in sweat and fatigue, the only gifts I can give. I don't know if the rules are the same. Once upon and long ago seem removed from me by oceans of various "who can recall"s and "I don't give a ****"s. I'm not sure if it was ever easier or better. I only know that it is hard and I am worse. My god, how you can greet. You hug and you kiss and you express. It mystifies me, these strange magic that you and yours possess. It is alien to me and to mine. We are not a talk of love kind of people, my family. I don't know how to whisper beauty at you. I only know the work. And the work, my love, The work is for you.