Sometimes it’s hard to know what to write, solita. It feels like I’m always saying the same thing… we’re trudging along, hoping you’re okay, hoping you’ll show yourself, hoping all of everyone’s effort and energy will bring you home. Your dad hasn’t blogged in forever because he can’t. He gets too sad and is a mess for hours afterward. We still find tufts of your fur. I pulled out a pair of shoes I haven’t worn in a few months and found some in the shoe rack. You seem to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. Please come home.
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