Liz looks at the tissue box, which is decorated with drawings of snowmen engaged in various holiday activities. One of the snowmen is happily placing a smiling rack of gingerbread men in an oven. Baking gingerbread men, or any cooking for that matter, is probably close to suicide for a snowman, Liz thinks. Why would a snowman voluntarily engage in an activity that would in all likelihood melt him? Can snowmen even eat? Liz glares at the box.

And when she dreams, she dreams of a girl who was lost at sea but one day found the shore.

It wasn't even 8:00 yet. Pretty early for such deep thoughts.

Before I liked to write, I liked to type. I remember visiting my grandmother Adele in Ponce Inlet, Florida, when I was three years old, and she had an IBM electric typewriter.

I met a travler from an ancient land.

The only love she inspires is the canine kind.

They should tell you when you’re born: have a suitcase heart, be ready to travel.