Today, I woke up missing people.

Some are gone forever. Some are far away. And some are slowly fading.

But when I reach for a bowl from the cupboard my fingers graze the leaded glass panel of the door. The colored squares and clear rectangles were soldered carefully in place by my father to my exact specifications. Tracing the lead lines, I recall sifting through his bins of glass to find just the right colors.

That’s when I realize I’m surrounded by the people I’m missing. Dad’s glass art is here on my kitchen cupboard and scattered throughout my house.

The birdhouse I see from my window was made grandpa. The soup I made last night came from the recipe card with grandma’s fine handwriting.

I’m wearing a scarf sewn by a sister. Another sister painted the portrait of my children that’s propped up on the bookcase. And yet another made the glass suncatcher hanging in the window.

Just last night I warded off a chill with the blanket crocheted by my mother. And this morning my feet are hugged by the socks knit by my daughter. I have enough for every day of the week. Jealous? You should be.

Over my desk hangs the quick sketches another daughter did for an art class. I stole them from her sketchbook. I steal her art a lot. She doesn’t mind. Much. I say it’s on loan, but if she becomes famous, I reserve the right to sell them. I might be teasing. Maybe.

The framed photos in my office show the buildings that caught another’s daughter eye as she wandered through Europe. I didn’t steal those, but I would have. She also gave me a small pottery dish she made, and I’m glad because it’s perfect for catching pocket detritus treasures.

I’m still missing people, but now I see they’re here. They’re here all around me. I just need to see them.

Love, February

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