and suddenly I was four years old

Yesterday, for whatever reason, was blah. Empty, miserable, bitter, sad. Call it Valentine's Day Eve Doldrums.

Here I am, twenty-four, with a great haircut and a big smile, with excellent cooking skills and a shiningly clean apartment, with energy and enthusiasm, intelligence and education, a sense of humor, a ready laugh, and a heart full of love for almost everything that exists, and I have only my much-beloved kitty to come home to, and only myself to cook for.

Most of the time I am fine with this, because I have been blessed with an enjoyment of my own company, and I have a support system of strong, close friends. And lately I've been devouring books at a pre-college rate, and feeling literarily fulfilled. I look on my life and I love it, I marvel at the miracle that has been carved out for me, I am fiercely glad and thankful for all that is mine.

But yesterday I was sad. I plodded through the day at work, crawled into my car, drove home, and dragged myself up the steps, thinking over and over, No one loves me. And my tiny mailbox was bulging open with one very large Valentine's Day card from my grandma, with "xoxoxo" printed across the top, and a funny letter and a ten dollar bill inside.

And I started crying. Some things grandmas can still fix. And everything felt cleaner, and better.