Dear Mom,
You are a painter.
I wish I were a painter.
Because there are pretty things here in Spain.
So, how about you come visit me and you can get ideas and go back and paint me some pictures?
Okay?
Okay.
Miss you lots and love you always,
you favorite middle child
Dear Dad,
I have now taken to reading the morning paper on the bus. No electronic versions and link clinking, but the actual paper.
Sometimes, I fold it as loudly as possible and rattle it so that it lays just so.
I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree?
Also: Please make Mom like olives before she gets here.
Love you,
me.
