When I got word a couple of months ago that George Fuzzy had died - and I hit the floor because I was half a world away and I couldn't say goodbye to my lop-eared friend - my parents were the first ones I called. They knew how George had been there for me when I'd been depressed and strung out with a newly adopted toddler, how I'd buried my nose in his soft fur many times, and stroked him in the evenings while feeding him popcorn. And now he was gone! And I wasn't there! The tears were real, and the pain was real.
They listened and consoled, and then we hung up.
But later that same day, these were delivered to my door. And I felt loved. And known. And understood.
What a gift it is, being their daughter.
