Dear Goodnight,
I was puttering in the garden yesterday while you were at school. I had my garden tools with me, but had forgotten to take my gardening gloves. I went into the garage to find them and a much smaller pair dropped down out of the bin when I pulled out mine.
It reminded me of the much smaller version of you when you came to live with me.
Please don’t ever measure the size of my heart against the size of our small townhome. The little townhome that Officer Friendly and I decided would be perfect for our retirements has also turned out to be perfect for living with you. But . . . it is small and I can’t keep everything.
My heart, on the other hand, has no limit and I can store a great deal more there, (or in my brain for those who prefer the less poetic discussion of anatomy and physiology). I have been able to store more memories than I could ever hold in bins in the garage.
The little pair of gloves that fell were the ones I bought for you to putter in the garden as you worked by my side. You’ve been a welcome addition to this quiet house and the garden is all the better for your puttering there.
The little gloves are going back in the bin for now. If hugs and smiles ever fail to quantify the extent to which you have been included and loved, then pull them out and try them on. They won’t fit you. They were replaced a long time ago. But love needs no replacing. It has grown with every day you have tucked yourself in under my roof.
ps. Your little girl apron won’t fit you either, but I found it in the drawer where my apron is . . . just in case the gloves aren’t enough evidence of your life mixed in with mine. 
