Everyday, I stand here unable to move. At the end of this driveway, solely watching as cars drive by. I am only a mailbox.

I have been recently painted because parts of me were fading. The white wooden post that holds me up is so strong that even after the windiest days and harshest winter nights, we still stand, together we are one. We only have each other, as we do not have any other mailboxes near us. However, the family that owns me wants to make sure I do not show any parts of aging. The numbers that are stuck to my side have been replaced with more visible ones. As the white paint starts to chip away starting from the bottom of the post, I can see disgusted faces when my owners see the chipped paint as it disrupts the aesthetic of the house. Perhaps it was just time for a new coat of paint. Not only because of the years that have passed by since the wooden post that holds me has been painted, but all those dogs that walk by my post and I, that decide we are the best peeing spot. Every time a dog comes up to us, I know what is about to happen. I look down with disgust at the dog. We are not supposed to be their perfect peeing spot. I scream “Go away! We are not your peeing spot! Find somewhere else!”, but the dog does not care and does whatever he wants. I feel bad for my post as we experience life together, but my wooden post gets the worst of it. 

I think of the individuals who visit me in two different categories, those who use me to store packages and letters and those who take everything I hold away from me. Most mornings, I am visited by this lovely woman who opens me up and gives me letters to hold. Then, she closes me up and off she goes until the next morning. Occasionally, I am visited by strangers who open me up and stuff me with packages. Then in the evenings, one of the family members walks up to me and opens me up to check if I hold any packages or letters. When I do, they take everything from me and leave me bare inside. So, I have completed my job. Sometimes I am tasked to send out a letter. Usually, it is my owner that gives me the letter to send out, he will raise my red flag. This will let the wonderful woman in the morning know that I have something for her. She will open me and take the letter with her. She will put down my flag, as I no longer hold anything that needs to be shipped. Then the woman checks to see if she has anything for me to give to my owners. And just like that she closes me up.

There is no other like me. I can see, hear, and talk. I am more than an ordinary mailbox. 

On June 23rd, 2023, students and families gathered outside Sachem East High School’s football field. Over 500 students took the center of the field, their bright red robes and customized graduation caps facing the crowd. The students eagerly waited for their class president to make the announcement, for them to turn their tassels, and for their graduation to be official. The last four years led up to this moment; everything was all for the diploma. 

A high school diploma’s importance varies among people. A simple piece of paper, a check box on their resume, or a stepping stone in their academic career. My high school diploma is a reminder of my accomplishments and my background. 

This is a photo of my family on my graduation day. Immediately to the left of me is my mother, Tammy, whom only received her high school diploma and sacrificed her education to raise a family. My mother always had big dreams, but her selflessness and love for family she’s always valued most of all. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish anything I have if it weren’t for her unconditional love and support. My high school diploma is a symbol of her sacrifices that helped others. 

Next to her is my father, Peter, a first-generation son who was the first to graduate college. My dad has worked tirelessly since childhood to give me the life I have today. He taught me the importance of hard work and the determination you need to achieve your goals. He worked to get himself and his parents out of the dangerous streets of Hollis, Queens to the suburbs. He’s given up everything to give us everything. My diploma is a symbol of the lessons he’s taught me about hard work.

My dad has his hands around my two little brothers, PJ and Ethan, and next to them is my older sister, Angelina. My little brothers are my motivation for most of the things I do. Watching them grow up, I want to continue to watch them grow into someone they are proud of. After I started college, it opened doors for PJ to begin thinking the same, something he never cared for before. Angelina is one of my biggest supporters in everything I do. Since I’ve been a kid, she’s believed in me and encouraged me the most. Though college wasn’t for her, she continues exploring possibilities of returning to school or pursuing her passion for art. My diploma is a symbol to them that they are capable of anything. 

My grandparents are Maria and Pedro, but we call them Mafita and Abuelo. My grandparents are arguably some of the most influential people in this regard. They immigrated from Colombia with essentially nothing but the clothes on their backs. They relentlessly worked three jobs to provide for my father and his sister. Neither of them had the chance to graduate high school, as they began working at such a young age. I am consistently reminding myself of how lucky I am to have the chance to be an educated woman. The first woman in my family to graduate college. My grandmother unexpectedly passed away a couple of months after my graduation, so unbeknownst to me this would be the first and last recognition she saw me receive. She was over the moon for me that day, and I know I will continue to make her proud. I’m studying Spanish to become fluent and stay connected with my culture, which has always been very important to them. My diploma is a symbol of brighter beginnings after significant sacrifices. 

Finally, what does this diploma mean to me specifically? This diploma is a symbol of my overcoming challenges I never thought I could. My struggle with mental health during my high school years started leading me to believe I may not make it to this point, or I may not accomplish anything I wanted to. The top of my graduation cap reads “She knows she lived through it to get to this moment.” Regardless of feeling like nothing was possible, this was possible. This diploma is a symbol that was only my beginning, that I’m capable of so much more, and I wouldn’t be where I am without the support of my family. 

It wasn’t the fact that he was working all day, going door-to-door with catalogs buried under his arm. It wasn’t the fact that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it just turned 7pm. It wasn’t even the fact that no bus was willing to pick him up for the next hour due to inclement weather.

It was the fact that he found himself back here in the underbelly of this city. The collective sweat, breath, and human heft all amalgamating into a stench that didn’t linger—it clung. Clung like a damp cloth to blistering skin, like a bad slick coating your throat, layer after layer until it solidifies, suffocates. Mihail loathed it with every ounce of his being, and he hated these subway platforms for it.

He didn’t mean to let his eyes wander, but having his head hung down made him all the more able. Just barely protruding from the rail track, covered in the same slick and soot on every surface of the tunnels, he could make it out. Qualitatively, it was a rat, though it was a generous label given its condition. 

Matted, slick fur shielded most of the gore, perm-pressed against the metal beam, three-times the length of what it should’ve been capable of. Each groove across its pelt was an unpopped joint, a snapped bone, a jut in places that shouldn’t be cut. A dried-intestine scored the outer edges of its body to the sides of the beam. Teeth yellowed, then blackened. And God, he was pretty damn sure that an eye was still intact. Every composite material was right there, and you could almost make it a rat again if you peeled and molded it just right.

As more people flooded the platform, the more Mihail found himself itching. His eyes darted from each new person who stepped into his field of view. God willing, only two more minutes until the train came. He stood about five feet from the platform’s edge. Sweat coated the inside of his shirt collar, clinging to him as the stench of bodies, pushing and piling their way into this space, his space, unabashedly, fragrantly flagrant. Taking note of every new character entering his peripheral, his eyes always returned to the tracks and the planate corpse, fists planted firmly against his sides.

The rat, God, could he even call it that? All the right pieces were right there, but it was missing something. All the right pieces were spatially close, but what’s a life if they can’t work in unison? All the right pieces were identifiably, quantitatively present, but the heart was gone.

Mihail found that in trying to step back, he couldn’t move. Maybe there was something slick against his shoe—grease or vomit or some animal shit—that kept him stuck to this spot. Or maybe it was the bodies crowding in closer, keeping him fixed. Every part of this subway clung to him, just as it clung to the hot metal tracks. Every body, every being, every sweating, bleeding, dying creature on this platform moved in perfect exhaustive motion as one single entity—an entity that would not let Mihail go.

And how could he not feel his own bones contort, crack and bend pliably so beneath the leathery tendons and tissue. How could he not listen as his own organs squelched and popped, vessel by vessel, and how everything was now moving inside, twisting and churning in an orbital motion, contained only by his thin, waning membrane—all of those parts inside his, designed to make up him. A him to make up a resounding them, and a them to make up a we, screaming, then silent.

When Mihail opened his eyes, he was no longer looking down, but up, with his one eye angled high enough to see the unperturbed faces of the city, the stench, and my God, how it clung. One by one, the heat waxed itself across the pelt, the cartilage, the dried flesh, the fresh slick—they were all his, but they were not him. 

And it was loud, louder than a chorus of locusts or a wave crashing against a cliffside. And my God, it wouldn’t stop. Not a single piece of him could move, clung to that beam as every bit he had rung in discordant glee. The light grew brighter and brighter, and yet nothing. He could not command a single part to move, not because of this state, but because there wasn’t a him anymore. He could only witness, watch, then wait. A twitch, a spasm, a jolt, and then he was back on the platform.

The train doors hissed open, and Mihail’s legs fell forward, finding their way to an open seat. His hands rested the bag on his lap, as his spine slumped forward, and his head leaned back against the wall. As more bodies piled in, so too did the stench follow, but Mihail couldn’t even recognize its cling. All he could perceive was 32 tons of solid metal swallowing every part he had whole. All he wanted was to just make it home in all pieces. All he could do now was let his body sprawl.

It was a gift.

Haphazardly thrown against the back of his wooden desk chair, the red varsity jacket lay. It was an odd piece of decoration for his otherwise empty room, but it remained — a constant: dark, wrinkled, and slightly dusty, a silent reminder of things left unsaid.

Jackets of this type weren’t usually his style. He was more of a hoodie kind of guy, where he didn’t have to worry about whatever he put under it (if he even chose to do that), and where he could use the hood to obscure himself from the world around him.

So, this jacket, with its lack of a hood, open front, and bright color, was a lot different than what he would usually wear. It was one he never would have bought himself, one he probably would’ve thrown out, and one that definitely wasn’t his proper size.

But… it was a gift.

“Hey, take this,” she had said one chilly afternoon, draping her red jacket over his shoulders. “I don’t understand how you never manage to dress for the right weather!”

She wasn’t wrong. The second the jacket was draped around his shoulders, as soon as she helped his arms into the slightly too-small sleeves, he was engulfed in warmth. Warmth from the thicker cotton fabric, remnants of warmth that was hers, and a warmth he couldn’t name — one too fond, too new, and so wonderful.

She fiddled with the lapel of his jacket, closing the small, circular buttons. When she was done, she smiled at him in the same caring way that she always had, looking at him as if he was the whole world, as her hands lingered against his collar for a second too long.

“…Whatever,” he’d mumbled, in his typical “above-it-all” attitude, but he hadn’t taken it off. That was her — persistent in her own quiet way, always wanting the best for him. At his words, she giggled, her laughter lingering in the air, filling the area around him with the warmth he didn’t know he craved.

It was a gift.

That was ages ago. He had tried to return it the next time he saw her. In fact, he had always carried it around, using it as an excuse to see her again. But she shook her head, even when he practically thrust the jacket into her arms, insisting that he keep it.

He hadn’t expected to wear it after that — especially not nearly every day. Each time he put it on, he told himself it was just because it was practical for the cool autumn days that were stretching into winter.

It totally wasn’t because, to him, the truth of this jacket was so much more than that. It was a reminder of her. Of the way she laughed, the way her fingers always smoothed his collar down, and the way her hand brushed his when she eventually had to pull away.

She was gone now, but the jacket remained.

He sighed as he sat up in his bed, automatically reaching for the jacket from its place on the chair. The weight of it settled on his shoulders, heavy like her absence and all the things he had to leave behind.

He always thought it carried a faint scent of her perfume. Or maybe that was his imagination, filling in the gaps that time had caused to fade.

“Hey,” he’d said back then, when it was just the two of them. The air had grown colder, and his breath caused a warm fog to rise into the air.

“Yeah?” she asked, her eyes twinkling. She stopped where she was stepping ahead of him, her own pink jacket hung loosely from where her arms were stretched out by her sides.

The jacket sat snug on his shoulders. It clung to him like glue — a bit too tight, a bit too much.

“Why don’t you want it back?” he asked. He reached forward, his hand extended between them. The motion caused one of the too-small jacket’s buttons to pop open, but he didn’t move, instead allowing his hand to hover in the space between them.

She didn’t immediately respond, instead smiling that all-knowing smile of hers. Instead, she leaned to the side, and instead of taking his hand, tugged on his sleeve so that he stepped closer to her.

“Well….” she lingered, reaching up and closing the button that had popped open. She stepped back to admire him with a proud smile on her face. “I love it on you.”

Her approval was a warm glow — subtle comfort he hadn’t known he craved. He had never cared about his clothes, opting for whatever was the bare minimum. But that day, with that confession, this jacket had changed into something more — it was her touch, her laugh, her smile.

But that was years ago, before life pulled them apart. Before she moved to a different city with the promise of keeping in touch and when hangouts became less frequent, until they stopped completely. Life happened, just like it always does, and the jacket became another random item in his room, gathering dust.

Feeling a million miles away, the jacket was all he had left of her. He wore it because it was the only thing that felt right, the only thing that made sense. Each time he pulled it on, it was like he still had some sort of connection to her — keeping her with him in the only way he knew how outside of a few fleeting text messages.

The fabric was thin and worn now, fraying from too much use. The cuffs had permanent wrinkles in them, and the buttons she liked to fiddle with had long fallen off. This jacket wasn’t just old and worn — it was unraveling, it was broken, much like he was.

Today, he stood there, tracing the frayed edges of the jacket with his knuckles. It was warm outside now, the sun shining bright even through his closed curtains. It had been a long time since he had seen her, let alone since it was cold out.

He wasn’t sure what he was even holding onto anymore. Was it her? Was it the person he was when he was with her — the man who wore this jacket because it made her happy?

Now, it was a weight — a reminder of what had slipped away from him. A reminder of smiles he didn’t deserve, a too-small red jacket that wasn’t supposed to be his, and her.

But she wouldn’t have wanted him to feel like this. He realized that now, with the sound of birdsong through the window, and the jacket’s faint scent of her rose perfume.

He took the jacket off slowly, careful not to lose any more of the buttons. He folded it onto the back of his chair, not throwing it there like he usually did. He stood up and picked a T-shirt out of his closet, a dark red one — a piece of clothing that wouldn’t let him hide himself in the way he had gotten used to.

For the first time in a while, he stepped outside. The warm air hit him as he stepped out, and he was almost glad he hadn’t worn a jacket. He felt lighter, as if the weight of the jacket and her absence had both finally eased.

He knew he would wear it again someday. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, probably soon. But, at this moment, he just wanted to feel the air on his skin and to face the future feeling light.

In his dark room, the jacket was still there, waiting for him. Yet, as he stepped towards the sunlight, feeling its gentle warmth, he realized that some things, objects, feelings, or gifts, even when left behind, always found a way to stay. 

“Oh shit. Somebody dropped their keys.”

Mari’s nostrils flared. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you, you know”, she snapped. “Like an actual conversation? About us? All we do is fight and now when I’m trying to solve things you get distracted by someone’s keys?”

James stared blankly at her. “We’re at a Halloween party dressed as Shrek and Fiona. My face is green.”

She looked at him like he had two heads. “What does that have anything to do with this?”

“Why are you bringing this up to me at a Halloween party?”

Mari threw her hands up and let out a harsh laugh. “This is ridiculous. Whatever, go find whoever’s keys those are. I’m done with this.” James watched her push her way through the crowded basement, picking up a half-drunk beer she found discarded on a table. He sighed. They’d been fighting a lot, more than they ever had. He wasn’t sure if that’s what love was supposed to be like.

He anxiously turned the cold keys between his fingers. He missed what they had over the summer—the bliss of a new relationship, the eternal hum of cicadas that filled the gaps between them.

The sharp edges of the keys left indents in his palm from how hard he was gripping them. “God”, he grumbled.

He went further into the basement, shoving past the kids he recognized from some of his classes, although instead of discussing philosophy they now sang loudly and reeked of beer. He found one of the people who actually lived in the house, Ro, standing in the corner of the room with some girl he didn’t recognize. “Hey, someone dropped these,” he said, handing them over to Ro. The girls exchanged glances, locking eyes before each giving him a dirty look; it was obvious he had interrupted something.

“Um, great. Thanks”, Ro said. She looked over at Kate, who was anxiously stirring her drink and notably looking everywhere besides Ro. She knew this was the guy Mari’s been with, but couldn’t remember his name. She figured it didn’t really matter. Everyone knew they were bound to break up any day now.

Kate cleared her throat as the guy walked away. “So”, she started. “I was, uh, going to say something.”

“You were.” Their faces were flushed, both attributing it to the drinking but maybe it was something more. Kate’s eyes were framed by glitter and Ro tried to ignore how her face glowed in the dim, lantern-lit basement, how her plastic tiara sat like it was always meant to be there.

Kate let out a nervous laugh, stirring her drink more and more aggressively. The clicking of the keys as they rolled through Ro’s fingers echoed louder than they should have. “It’s just that I, uh”, she cleared her throat. “I mean, we have known each other for a while, and I don’t want to, you know, mess anything up, but I think, or I guess it’s more of a know, that I like–”

“Hey!”Avery slid in front of Kate, pointing to the keys twirling in Ro’s hand. “Those are my partner’s keys, could I grab them?”

Ro had to bend her neck all the way back to look at Avery. She cursed tall men and their tendencies to ruin things with their loudness. She huffed, shoving the keys into Avery’s hand before pushing him to the side, grabbing Kate’s face in her hands, and kissing her.

Avery didn’t really understand what was going on, but then again he was generally confused by lesbians. And at least he found Wren’s keys.

They were still sitting with their face tucked into their knees by the time Avery found his way outside. The latter sat down next to them, letting the keys dangle from their worn, embroidered lanyard. “See, I told you it would be fine”, Avery smiled. “What would you ever do without me?”

Wren glanced up out of their arms, eyes scrunched from a smile. “Thanks”, they said, their voice muffled by their crossed arms. They uncurled themselves to grab their keys, grateful that they hadn’t been lost or stolen in the house. They traced over the clay ladybug keychain Avery had made them for their last anniversary. Although losing their keys would have sucked, they knew they realistically could have gotten new ones. That keychain, however, would have been lost forever. “Can we go home now? I’m tired and it’s too loud.”

“Of course. I’ll drive.” Avery took the keys back from Wren, holding them extra tight in case they somehow slipped out of his hands and re-entered the void of lost things. Hand in hand, they tiredly bumped into each other, stumbling down the grassy hill to Wren’s Subaru. “You know, I think Ro and Kate are dating”, Avery mentioned as they climbed into their seats. He blasted the heat and played Wren’s favorite jazz playlist.

Wren hummed. “That’s cute. They work well together.” The car’s movement lulled them, their eyes drooping. The street lamps streaked between their eyelashes as they leaned against the cold window.

They were silent for a couple of minutes. “I think Mari and James broke up”, Avery added. The only response he got was a soft snore.

Avery smiled. The key’s lanyard softly bumped against his knee as he drove, making sure to avoid all the potholes his town was too lazy to fix. 

Goodbyes are easy, the hard part is letting go. That’s how I feel right now talking to you about my good friend Jarvis. Throughout heartbreak, school, cross country races, Snapchat streaks, Reggaeton, and even an internship, Jarvis was one of the few common denominators that I had in my life over the past 6 years. 

I first met Jarvis Christmas 2018, when my mom surprised me with my first smartphone, and we’ve been a dynamic duo since. Although Jarvis’s net worth was only $300 at the time I met him, it didn’t matter because I was so excited that I could finally “fit in” with the rest of my friends. Occasionally I would feel bad when other kids insulted Jarvis and flexed their flashy iPhones, but we would get the last laugh when we would dominate the #1 spot in phone/person challenges such as Kahoot and Gimkit. By the middle of my sophomore year, Jarvis’s presence in my life had given me the confidence to slowly get out of my shell and be more social, and life was great. Then, 2020 came and undid all my progress. 

During the 2020-21 school year (we returned in person for the whole year), a Pokemon Go gym opened up at my school. As a Pokemon fan and a former Pokemon Go tryhard, Jarvis and I would consistently take possession of that gym and many other gyms in the area. This drove a kid named Michael crazy, so he set out to find the culprit. He found out pretty quickly since my in-game username had “The Urban Legend” in it, and everyone who knows me knows that I got that nickname in the 7th grade. When he found me, he invited me to his lunch table (I was sitting by myself at this time), and that day changed my life. Although I didn’t know it at the time, Jarvis had led me to a person that is one of my closest homies to this day. As a result of meeting Michael, my confidence and self esteem skyrocketed, and I started to experiment in ways that set me apart from my peers. For example, my AP Literature teacher gave us the choice of writing an essay or doing a creative project, of which Jarvis and I chose the creative route. We wrote, recorded, and performed song parodies in front of the class, which in turn led to encouragement from both my teachers and my peers. Keep in mind that I graduated in the top 10% of my class, so stuff like this was really unheard of in this context. Whether it was a debate, essay, project, or exam, I could always count on Jarvis to help me raise the standard. 

When I graduated high school, one of the thoughts that crossed my mind was the topic of phones. Jarvis had been in my corner for nearly all of my high school career, while the majority of kids were on their second or third iPhone; so who really had the better phone? Since this thought, I would feel a sense of pride whenever I took Jarvis out of my pocket. Although he was ugly, small, and cheap, he was a fighter that had a scratch for every adventure and a crack for every milestone that we shared. His story is my history, and I was genuinely hoping that his story would include my college graduation, grad school graduation, and maybe even marriage (in like 10 years). Unfortunately, All legends have to retire one day, and now it’s Jarvis’s time. As I took him to the Best Buy graveyard, I couldn’t help but smile as I remembered the 6 years of character development that Jarvis accompanied me through. Now that I transition into a new phase in my life, it feels strange having a sleek, expensive phone in my pocket, but I find comfort in the things I learned on our journey together: value doesn’t come from flashy designs or the latest tech, but rather in the moments we capture, the confidence we build, and the people we connect with along the way. As I move forward, I carry those memories in my heart and a piece of Jarvis in my pocket. Goodbye, old friend. 

SPLAT! 

Hush Hush

Canvas to brush.

The time is a quarter to twelve. The bells have stopped ringing and the ventilation keeps on humming. My sole creator, I am a tool for them. While I am much use for her, I’m dying. 

The focus of an artist cannot be broken without disturbance. In this state, I am thrown and clattered onto a nearby table as she franticly paints her world. I often ponder if she thinks of me, while I am just a brush historically I am an ever so crucial tool. To many of her kind, I offer control, precision, and efficiency to tasks that require my work. I am unique in every way, my brothers and sisters are also the same. From bristle to handle I suit a specific need. I am a long-handle flat brush, I have synthetic filaments, and I’m durable and large enough to aid my user in many forms. 

To her, I am one of her favorites, mainly because I am one of her biggest brushes. She uses me to create bold strokes, and large washes of color, and to fill wide spaces in her world. I make textures and shape the starting process of her work, I am the coworker to her sketch, and I lay the foundation. However, I am only a brush. I have my limitations.

As I am drowned in gamblin solvent, a paint thinner, my bristles gulp down the liquid. As I approach the canvas with a bright shade of phantom blue on my hair, once I touch down on this desert plain the combination of paint thinner and oil paint sizzles. I’m tossed, slammed, and pushed into the gessoed bare white canvas. It is rough and unmerciful. I groan across the fabric. This hissing is what she’s after. The thinning of paint mixed with oil paint creates the perfect atmosphere for blending. The rich colors mix well together, blue and yellows wisp around each other as I gracefully dance on the canvas. Yet, she is still unsatisfied. 

SLAM. Aggressively she throws me back onto the work, I’m not blending like she wants me to. A huff of frustration escapes her lips. It’s one in the morning now, and she is beginning to tire. Quiet halls, and a cool darkness flooding outside, disappointment is taking over. I’m trying my best, there is only so much I can do. She is attempting a landscape, a subject she is not fond of creating herself. It’s new uncharted territory and I have become a victim of exploring it. More time passes, more anger and mishandling are had. Others in the studio walk by and complement our work. I wonder if they ever see me. Do they wonder if I yearn for escape, or help? It’s complicated my situation in the grand scheme of things. After all, I was a gift from my creator’s brother. He used too much of her other supplies so I was brought into her life as a “sorry”. 

The beautiful color is pattered as my work comes to a close. My tired body has completed its job. I hear my creator is satisfied with her labor. The witching hour is approaching. I sense a notion of sadness in her hands as she holds me. I am dying. 

Solvent and abuse have worn out the glue that holds me all together. I am manipulated, my head can be twisted and ripped off my neck. I shriek, “I am falling apart.” If it wasn’t obvious to my creator my bristles have started to fall all over her canvas as she used me, she even noticed one or two and yanked them out as they “bothered her”. Acknowledging my fate she knows what has happened, she knows who I must belong to now. She’s had me for quite some time, she’s used me in every work since now. 

One by one she takes her last minutes to use me to my full potential. I am glad she now sees me for this. I create beautiful textures for her and offer her time-saving washes over her canvas. She wants me to be used as much as I can before I go. She begins to slowly remove my bristles, a way to estimate how much time I have left. However, that is now. Paint-covered fingers remove my head as she grips me one last time and walks over to the trash. She keeps my body made of wood, she may have uses for it later. The last time I saw my artist she thanked me, and I was gently tossed into a soft cushion of crumpled-up oil paint and water-covered paper towels in this trash can. I find it surprisingly It is comfortable, as I end my time here. I am glad I was of use to her. 

I am only a brush. I had limitations.