Sympathy cards.

Sympathy cards don't know anything.

They don't know
That he could wiggle his ears.
That he had a mole on the back of his neck.
That his voice was slightly husky, and for some reason he didn't like the sound of it recorded on tape.
That his toes were scrunched together from years of running around in soccer cleats.
That he had a tiny scar on his upper lip, and a mole near his chin.
That he bit his nails so they were always short.
That when he yawned he would literally say the word "yawn" as he stretched.
That he would sing to himself on the phone and not realize it.
That when he held my hand he couldn't be still, so his fingers would wiggle around excessively.
That he hated loose change, so he would always give me his extra coins to keep.
That when he didn't shave his face, he would tickle me with his stubble like "his dad used to do."
That when he got mad, really mad, he would become very quiet.
That he was trying to teach himself piano and guitar.
That when he touched his pimples I would yell at him because it would "make it worse," and he'd tell me I reminded him of his mother.
That he loved thunderstorms at night.
That he told me he couldn't sleep with socks on.
That he liked to make beats and rhythms on anything available: desks, his legs--my stomach.
That he was ticklish on the back of his leg, but that was really about it.
That every morning he'd greet me with a hug, but if he forgot, he'd promise he'd make it up with an extra big one the next day.


...No, I know they have good intent, but sympathy cards don't know anything.