Objects of Memory

I am a memory keeper. Cards, old papers, photos. Of late, I have tried to pare down, but there is always something, a letter, a matchbook (where you can get them nowadays), a voice message to keep. I was in New York last May and I went down to the site of 9/11 and the newly built One World Trade Center. I didn't make a prior reservation for the museum, so I couldn't go, but I ran across a DVD or two in the gift shop that reminded me of the power of objects in bringing to mind the lives of those who die. A bent steel beam, a Fireman's hat, a license that floated from the top floor as the two towers fell to dust, those are the objects that we cherish because they assure us that once a building and the people in them stood in ordinary days no longer taken for granted.

I was thinking about the force an object has to evoke memory in relation to Monsignor Murphy, the pastor of St. Victor, who died last Wednesday afternoon.  Objects, (as well as locations) which Monsignor had used to continue to celebrate Mass during his years' long illness, which I had paid little or no attention to just a few days before, became critical for me to document after Monsignor left us, unexpectedly, for he always seemed to bounce back from the critical bouts with his illness. The objects marked not only his struggle in the shadow of the Crucifix under which he celebrated Mass, but the glorious persistence of his ministry, not unlike that of Saint John Paul II.  On Friday, I decided to take a few pictures of these items before they were inevitably removed, no longer needed ritual items within the ritual.

I suppose it began with the mechanical chair. For a while, because the disease which struck Monsignor, began with his arms, he could still go up and down the few steps from the sanctuary proper to the altar. But then his legs began to be affected, and it became dangerous for him to manage stairs and the little chair appeared. As the removable railings which Monsignor Parnassus had used when his illness made walking difficult did, the chair became an integral part of the area, a necessity, but a discreet one.

After a while, the chair was no longer enough, Monsignor became wheel chair bound. He could no longer approach the altar through the back of the church, because of the steps, but a ramp allowed him to come to the side door, the outside entrance to the children's room, and one of his devoted helpers, whether it be Virgil Sr., Virgil Jr., Jayvil or Joseph, or a friend who was visiting for the day, would wheel him past his beloved potted plants and bougainvilleas of red, pink and white, to vest him. He often could be seen, after Mass, in his wheel chair, with a straw hat protecting his face, instructing one of the guys on pruning the plants and re-potting others.

When the weather was warm, when I was waiting to help at the weekday 12:10, I liked to sit outside on one of the tree stumps lined against the outer wall, watching the hummingbirds, or starlings or whatever the creature was hopping on the soft patches of grass.  Monsignor would come up the path and ask if there was one to see, and if so, I'd point it out. Monsignor had us servers trained, to get him vested quickly and out into the sanctuary. "Let's go!" he'd say if one of us was dawdling.

He had a choice of many reading glasses, but he simply favored one wired pair, that seemed to me to ill fit him. More than once I got the frame hooks in his ear instead of over it. And they would inevitably slip. Sometimes we servers would notice; sometimes not, at which time, we'd hear a whisper "push my glasses up" before he read the collect or the Eucharistic prayer.

Sometimes Monsignor was patient; sometimes not so much as servers turned the pages of the Sacramentary for him, often not quite discerning the labyrinthine layout for the Ordinary, or a Memorial, or a Feast, and having the ribbon markers in the proper place. The service began at a little table near the lecturn stage left, piled with the book for readings, the Sacramentary, and the intention for the day, and then moved to the a small altar that was erected out of a long portable table, that would accommodate Monsignor's wheel chair.

When that altar was placed in front of the main marble one, there was a bit of a stir I heard through the parish grapevine.

Some folks were "scandalized" to have this makeshift altar. Others, including many of our visiting priests, liked the way it brought the celebrant closer to the people. As in all the things that have happened during these last years, for me, the adjustments that were made to allow Monsignor to do that which was his life's blood, the celebration of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, became second nature. And for many others of us as well, I know.

All these objects made Monsignor Murphy more precious to us in this last more than half a decade. And maybe, for those I call the "St. Victor regulars", those parishioners who attend the variety of services and Holy Hours which provide sorely needed Graces as we tentatively walk the Royal Road of the Cross, the example of this priest and the objects he used to assist him in his ministry made us more precious to each other. We are a family in mourning for ourselves because he is lost to us in this life, but we are a family in joy because Monsignor has been freed from suffering and has entered Eternity.

The memory evoked by these small objects will keep our hearts warm until we join him.

"Shew Me Wherefore Thou Contendest With Me" (Book of Job Chapter 10, Verse 2)

As we all do, my father struggled with faith, and the idea of it. In some ways, for most of his life he simply stood outside and watched the fray, saying that he needed proofs that God be God. We can ask God, even struggle with the circumstances that flow from being fallen humans, but not demand of Him. The reality is that we have to understand that we are not in command, that we serve, but that doesn't come easily to any of us. When my father converted to Catholicism, I knew that at base he did it for me, but that was a great concession for a man who battled so within, and I am grateful he came to it, however circuitously. This story though reflects my father's life long questions, questions that have been extant since man had consciousness.  


It is said that He is aware of that solitary sparrow that glides through the vast forests of eternity. When it falls, wing broken, and thrashing on the ground; when the tree falls in that unkind wilderness, He knows the sounds of despair of his afflicted creations.  Yet nothing happens to alter the fate of either the tree or the sparrow.

So it is with some human "Sparrows" who are broken in spirit, from the beginning of their sojourn, assailed at birth by the confluence of natural forces and the imperfections of the human experience.

She came with that great wave of immigrants at the turn of the century.  The route was Argentina, first, then the lower East Side of Manhattan. Yitzhak, her father was a weaver.  He brought his own loom which he had been guarding with his life since he left that little corner of Galicea, where he was born.  Her role became that of the firstborn whose function was to minister to the brothers and sisters, which arrived with little interim between pregnancies, until there were nine.  Golda, the mother, grew gray and worn, as she tried to stretch the meagre earnings of Yitshak's solitary loom into enough to stave off the constant threat of starvation.

Rachel, we have waited to give her a name, plodded silently, and dutifully, to the cacophony of needs, the cries of the newborn, the wails of the little brother who scraped his knee, and the thousand ills that befall the poverty stricken, enclosed in a railroad flat, five stories up, if one does not count the stone steps that are a preamble to the first floor.

Still, Rachel was blessed.  At seventeen, she was a rare beauty.  Her raven hair was uncut since birth, and when allowed to, it fell, glistening and graceful, to her waist.  Her eyes were coal black, in a very white face of classical beauty.  No lipstick could add anything to lips that were carmine and moist; and precociously impatient.

Such a gem cannot long escape notice.  Irving Feldstein was stricken the day they met as she was coming down the stairs.  Irving made his collections on insurance premiums, usually, one dollar a week on each of the policies he had sold initially.

The courtship went on for several years, perhaps because of the filial concern of Yitzhak and Golda, more likely, their need for Rachel's services.  In time, they met under the canopy.  Irving paid, and they moved to a frame house, on Fulton Avenue, in the Bronx, where they had two or three joyful years, sired two children, a boy and a girl, and then Irving made an unceremonious departure from this life.  He left nothing but the mortgage and the cash that was found in his pockets.

Rachel had no skills.  Her schooling terminated at the third grade.  The children were now, ten and eleven.  Once again, she was rolling that mythical stone up hill, only to see it roll down again in inexorable repetitions.

There was no help possible from Yitzhak, or any other source.  She spent her nights in tearful despair, and prayer.

Hunger was not new to her.  The few dollars left after the mortgage payment were gone.  She already was straining the benevolence of Mr. Cohen, the grocer at the end of the block, who kept an extensive record of generosity, marked in pencil on a brown paper bag.

It was on one of these errands of need that she passed Mr. Leibowitz' candy store.  It was a tiny establishment framed out of an architectural anomaly, and turned into a rental property by an enterprising landlord.

It had the ubiquitous paper stand, a fountain, and a stock of penny candies and cigarettes.

Mr. Leibowitz was very old and tired.  Selling penny candies, and two cent newspapers, long, cold winters while practically immobile in his cell-like establishment, were reducing him to desperation.

It was in this context that Rachel made the deal. No money exchanged hands. She would pay him a percentage of the earnings from the proceeds of the candy store of which she was now the proprietor.

So began the next ten years of her existence.  Up at five o'clock in the morning to cut the wire on the bundled Daily Mirror and Daily News, to be ready for even the earliest customer.  Seven days a week. Days of selling penny cigarettes to the street kids.  Three cent sodas; an occasional malted milk.  She smoked but only half a cigarette at a time, keeping the "dincher" for later use.  And that, she smoked close enough to burn her lips by use of a toothpick inserted to hold the butt between her teeth.

Her hair was shorn, and straggly. She wore the same hat, a kind of inverted cloth pot, perpetually.  She wore men's boots, low cut, in the icy days of winter and used old newspapers to line the oversized footwear against the intrusions of cold.  Her very black eyes hid in the sunken sockets in her haggard white face.  She sat, patiently, in the little cubicle, immobile, in the way that Leibowitz did before her, and she thought well before disposing of a penny without purpose.  Yet she paid her mortgage, and her son was now a college senior, and her daughter a jitterbug in the days of approaching war in Europe.

On the day of Pearl Harbor, she screamed loudly, in pain.  She was alone in the house on Fulton Avenue that had eaten so much of the substance of her life.  Some neighbors came to see.  She lay on the bed her eyes wide and blazing in anger.  From these once carmine lips there spewed the vilest of epithets.  She cursed life, the world and most vehemently the God to whom she had prayed to free her from her life of bondage, and she died.

Does a wounded sparrow have the right to ask for reasons.

"Shall he who contendeth with the Almighty instruct Him?"

Would an answer to Rachel be the one given to Job, in those days of faith?

"Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?  Declare if thou has understanding."

April 3, 1956

Dear Rosetta:

I am spending a quiet, sedate, educational afternoon in the BOQ.  This morning was rainy and chill but the day has become fair and warm.

Since I arose late, about 11:30, I was not able to get to the mail room which closes at 12:00 p.m.; therefore I have no way of knowing whether or not there is any mail from you.  I presume there will be an abundance awaiting me on Monday.

It was good for me to talk to you Friday night.  As a result I have been in good humor--a state that promises to continue for the entire week-end.

Since early this afternoon I have been recording my voice for posterity.  It seems the Iranian Officers feel--after much testing--that of all the America Officers, here, my pronunciation and voice are the est.  I am recording for them the English of an Iranian English book.  We also recorded a sort of informal interview, in which I answered spontaneous questions about various subjects.  I do not recognize my voice on playback.  It is a distinct surprise to me, somewhat deeper than I pictured it, much better inflection than I had supposed, and having many fewer defects than I would have believed.  As I was told long ago, I have a radio voice.

I am listening now to Mozart's "The Magic Flute".  I am not too familiar with the opera but it has some beautiful music which am enjoying.  The lyrics are in English and HORRIBLE.

Did my letter worry you?  I hope you did not think you were in any way responsible for the outburst of irrationality.  These moods do not come over me frequently enough to be of any consequence.  It is just that at a time that I was generally angry, having no specific object to vent my ire, I came upon your letter.  Suddenly, inexplicably, this anger turned inward.

It was quite a thrill to hear Djinna say "Hello, Daddy."  She pronounces it "Da--dd-y".  Last night I was invited to the Lt. Millwee's.  Captain Hahn, his wife, and Lt. Marrero, a Puerto Rican Officer were also there.  I had a very interesting evening.

Capt. Hahn and his wife, though married some ten years, are childless.  They are both very devoted to their Boxer, which apparently takes the place in their affections of a child.  They appear to me to despise each other and I gather from observation and scarps of conversation that she possesses an ardor that he rebuffs.  She is a very attractive girl, tall, petulant, nice eyes and full mouth, kittenish, deceptive in that she exudes a kind of naivete which I suspect is put on, and outspoken with regard to "sin", cheapness, etc.  Her husband is short, about 32, though he looks older due to approaching baldness, a heavy drinker--he is a govt inspector for "Old Grandad", outspoken with regard for his preference for other women than his wife (in her presence)--probably due to his failure to produce and offspring, a common source of inferiority feeling in men.  She is jealous.

Lt. Millwee looks like a Presbyterian Minister.  He is about my height, stocky, nearing thirty and his eyes are hidden by very thick tinted spectacles. He is very sensitive about his eyes.  Though very mild-spoken, with a deep Kentucky accent, I learned via the conversation that he has frequent outbursts of abusive meanness to his wife and three children.  He works for a personal loan company (finance).

The children are all blonde--very--blue eyed and extremely pretty.  The oldest, about five, is precocious.  The youngest, who will be two April 6 was going through the "eye, nose, mouth" routine and it made me very homesick.  The middle child is a mere boy and needs no mention.

Mrs. Millwee is very young, having married at twenty, has had her Fallopian tubes severed so as to preclude the possibility of another pregnancy. She speaks very frankly about her relationship with her husband, chides him for his lack of "attention" in a physical sense, speaks semi-jokingly about a divorce, "If ah knowed what to do 'bout the three young'uns."  She asked me if I treat my wife "thata way," and I thought evasion was the best course in view of the circumstances.

Neither one of these men dance though their wives claim to be good dancers.

I would not not be surprised to learn that one day, two men will be shocked out of their complacency.

Luitpolodo-Juan-xxxxxx is the Puerto Rican Officer.  He speaks fair English with a very thick accent.  He is about 30 and quite handsome. . .fine featured, black straight hair, milk white teeth and a small mustache.  He takes to very few of the officers, is sensitive and easily offended.  It is more apparent to me every day that even when the supposedly discriminated against are overtly accepted, their suspicion seldom diminishes.  It will take many more generations.

Among his particular problems is a Patriarchal father (he is an only son of well to do parents) a pregnant mistress and the love for a girl his father does not approve of.*  He has decided to move to Michigan, marry the girl "without parental blessing", and enroll in a college for his MA in Police Science.  I suspect he is too disturbed to ever find adjustment in this or any other country.  *Not the impregnated one.

Once a long time ago, a French girl told me that a man should find a young, naive, child-like girl. . .

Once a long time ago I found.

It seems like only yesterday I fell in love

Buddy.

April 3 was the last letter my father wrote as he came home on that week-end having completed the course that helped with finances at home. I found these letters when I was very young, maybe 10 or 11, and yes, I read them right away. I was blown away by my parents' (as far as I could tell without having her side of the correspondence) apparent affection for each other. When I was old enough to be aware of family dynamics, I had the sense that they didn't much like each other. They seemed like two roommates more than a married couple, except when there was a dispute between them. Then my mother would go deadly silent, while my father, who admits to his tendency toward anger, fumed.
I like these letters--though one friend has called the ones he has read on these pages so far--sterile. It is true my parents did not exude emotion--they were raised at a time when emotion was considered bad taste and they had hardships in their lives concomitant with the turmoil of the mid-twentieth century. What is nice to know is that at one point, whether or not I saw it, they had a little romance. I think my father had to work very hard with my mother and she was not easily pleased. But he obviously cared enough to work at it. 

So, only two things to add to these concluding Letters from Georgia.  First, a calendar from Camp (later named Fort) Gordon, with a handwritten addendum from Dad. And a picture of the whole class, American, Korean, Iranian and Puerto Rican, when they and the world was young. 

March 31, 1956

Dear Rosetta:

Enclosed you will find the sum of $500 which I told you I would send.  Be sure to put four hundred of this amount into an account immediately.  The other one hundred should be sufficient for your expenses until I get home next week.

With regard to that letter from Bond.  I owe them a small sum--about 40 dollars.  If they call or write, send them ten ($10) and no more.  When I get home I'll pay the rest.  Be sure not to go into the money set aside for the bank.

Saw two movies yesterday, Carousel, which was excellent--beautiful voices, particularly the leads, and The Tender Trap, which was quite enjoyable except that the hero ended up with Debbie Reynolds which showed poor judgment on his part considering the other gorgeous girls that were available to him.

Will write soon again--probably call you tonight.

Buddy

Remembering Monsignor Jeremiah Murphy

Some years ago, probably close to 18, I was walking along Holloway Drive in West Hollywood back toward my parish, St. Victor. I saw a man with a wide brimmed hat and a Notre Dame sweatshirt working on the patch of grass and trees in the front. I didn't realize I knew him until I heard, "Hello, Djinna."  In those days, Monsignor Murphy who became Pastor after our last long time one had become debilitated with illness, was a strong, athletic man. He loved to garden. He loved to run. He loved sports, football in particular. He had been the Superintendent of the Los Angeles Archdiocese Catholic schools, as well as a principal and a pastor in more than one Church, the one before ours, St. Brendan's in Hancock Park. For the first one or two years at St. Victor, he deferred to the Pastor Emeritus, by not making any significant changes in the way the parish was run. And, he allowed that former pastor to continue to live in his old rooms, something that demonstrated a particular kindness that was inherent to the man, but quietly so.




His homilies were always strong. He never used notes, and always full of history in discussing the saints.

To be honest, I was a little skittish around him, as I had been with the former pastor. Both were men of pronounced personalities, and neither suffered fools. In Monsignor Murphy's case, I particularly recognized the Irish reserve. People don't realize that. They think the Irish are always "hail fellow well met" sorts, but many are not demonstrative. He was not, though people always wanted to hug him and engage him in both spiritual and idle conversation.  He was always on the move, thinking ahead to the next thing he needed to do, or to found, like McIntyre House, the drug and alcohol recovery home that bears the name of the late Cardinal, and Isaiah House, for transitional homeless, or serving on one or another Board. And serving the parish, doing a herculean number of Masses. When he decided that St. Victor, which still is a mostly single adult parish should have a pre-school, a few folks thought it was nutty. Where would the kids come from? But he persevered and St. Victor has a thriving pre-school, well attended by 2 to 5 year olds who put smiles on everyone's faces. He increased the number of Holy Hours, so the people could adore Our Lord in the Eucharist. He created Christian Meditation Classes. A few years ago, he gave a temporary home to the Extraordinary Rite of the Mass and a couple of priests from the FSSP.

He could be perfunctory.  You might be having a conversation with him, or so you thought, and then suddenly he'd be gone. He had the ability to seem opaque, but then he'd break down with a little joke.

His family says it was about 12 years ago that the strong man began to have the physical ailment that would now debilitate him. Well, actually, it wasn't debilitated in a way, because he never stopped. He got some help from wonderful priests to fill in as necessary, but he continued to do more than his share of celebrations of the Mass. What he had, he kept to himself, except surely to those few people who tended to him, and his family, and maybe closest friends. I have always guessed, from that old reliable Google, that it was some form of ALS, given the way it took away his musculature and rendered him unable to move at all. For the last about six years, he had been in a wheelchair, effectively a quadraplegic. And the miraculous thing, though there was some talk he should give up the ghost, is that it worked. Parishioners and volunteer staff and servers and lectors helped him make sure that few beats were missed in the life of the parish. He had Jayvil, and Virgil Sr. and Virgil Jr. who could anticipate his every need and mood. In the summer of 2011, after I lost my job and transitioned into retirement from the 9-5 lifestyle, I became blessed to become one of the volunteers, in a manner that kept me so close to the "action" of the altar that was truly Awe-some. Sometimes I was so worried about making sure everything was as Monsignor wanted it, when he wanted it, the placement of his wheelchair, the turning of the pages, the placement of the vessels, that I might have not always realized the extraordinary Gift of Grace that was given to me, through the man who stood in representio Christi and the the moment of Transubstantiation.

I remember a story of one of my first efforts to help him. Monsignor was still walking, but his arms had failed him, and he couldn't lift them up to any height. I had never opened our Tabernacle before, and did not realize there was a particular angle at which the key had to be held and used.  I couldn't do it. Monsignor turned around and had me try to lift his hand to guide the key. It was a seemingly endless and impossible process. I could feel the heat of embarrassment and incompetence and frustration that would usually cause me to utter something profane--though I do so rarely, this was the kind of moment that could provoke it-but I didn't. I knew where I was. And then we did it. Monsignor was still able to dispense communion, and he took Our Lord in his fingers, and said, with a little humor in his voice, but not so much as not to be improper to the occasion, "Assuming you are still in the State of Grace, Body of Christ."  He was real, this man, this priest.

His homilies became more, how would I describe it, as they were always good ones, but more I guess, sensible of the eschatological, of last things, of living well as God intends for us. Happily, someone in our parish thought long ago to record them, and we will have them for posterity.

He would have bouts that accompany the disease that afflicted him. He would fight it until he absolutely had to be hospitalized. But he always came back to St. Victor. The last time I saw him was on Thursday the 23rd. It would be the last time I would assist him during Mass. Then I heard on Saturday morning he was hospitalized, in the ICU. Information was sparse. They said he was doing better, on the very day that he died, while Fr. Anthony was celebrating the 12:10 weekday Mass that Monsignor did when he was well (and the 8).

I love the idea that he is no longer bound by his body. I don't like that he is gone. But I also know that he suffered as God's good disciple in the last years, and I believe God is pleased with him.

Once, when I helped at a funeral, I wondered if as many people would show up to mine. He said it didn't matter how many people came; what mattered was my relationship with God.

Amen to that. But still I bet there will be a lot of people at his funeral to send him off. And no worries about his relationship with God. I am pretty sure the Lord will be saying, "Well done, My good and faithful servant!"

March 29, 1956

Whether rightly or incorrectly, Dad felt that my mother wasn't getting enough help from her sisters during the time that he was away. I don't know. It is true that many in our family were, a little odd, even not reading the needs of others. My mother probably didn't ask for help. She had her own eccentricities, as do we all.  I was there only tangentially, so I am not offering opinion. He felt as he felt then. 


Dear Rosetta:

Have no fear. The news about that projected California enterprise has little if any interest to me. Perhaps I am a little hardened but mention of any of my erstwhile associates leaves me a little cold.  I have little desire to be in any way involved in their lives. . .I actually wish it were possible for us to suddenly disappear from our environment without farewells--without even notifying anyone that we were leaving and never to see any of them again.

This last school week seems to be dragging.  It is always this way when one tries to rush the calendar. Today, we were given a break.  We were scheduled for an outdoor weapons demonstration but it rained and we were given the afternoon off.

Saturday is pay day. I shall send you almost the entire check.  The total will be five hundred dollars.  Take four hundred and put it in an acount.  From the remainder you should have enough for expenses till I return.

Our Lt. was married, day before yesterday.  He neither spoke no had any other contact with his wife subsequently.  Now, though the agreement was a marriage in name only, she calls him continually and even followed him home last night.  She is quoted as having said, "After all, he is my husband."

From the little I know of her, and the little I've heard, I predict some unpleasant events for the young Napoleon.  The agreement calls for no monetary allowance for her or the child and a divorce at some future date. It is in writing but legally not worth the paper it is written on.  One of thse days he will probably receive a petition for support and possibly other expenses.

This has been rather a bad break for the Lt.  He is very young and not too bright.  The girl is also young but apparently not unfamiliar with the ways of the world.  Interspersed in their idyll is another boy who did spend the week-end with her.  The now husband has not even the satisfaction of knowing for certain whether is from his "loins" that the issue to come emanates.  However, it has always been thus since the days of Mother Eve.

About the middle of next week there will be little point in your writing any more since on Friday I shall leave for home. We graduate at nine in the morning and should be through by 12. Noon.  I can hardly wait.  How about you?

Love,

Buddy

March 27, 1956

Dear Rosetta:

Received a very short letter from you today and this made me realize how difficult it must have been for you to write every single day in view of the dearth of excitement at hoe.  I don't think I ever told you how grateful I have been for this consideration and thoughtfulness on your part.  I am very--and I have looked forward to receiving those pink and blue envelopes each and every day.

There remain some ten days or so to the course and they are pouring it on.  Probably there was a miscalculation on the part of the planning board and the Army requires that a specified course have so many hours of so many given subjects.  This week we had three exams, so far and there is still one more to go.  Next week we will be given the afternoon off to see the Cincinnati Reds play at the Ft. Gordon Ball Park.

It has been turning warm, which indicates that Spring is here in earnest.  So far, there has been only minor damage to "your" peach blossoms in South Carolina.  By the way, I don't think I mentioned this before, but South Carolina is just across a little bridge from Augusta.

Some officers from the Military Government Companies in New York arrived, yesterday.  One was from my company--Bill O'Connor, a NYC cop who manages to amass quite a sizable income from regular attendance at these Army schools.

I shall miss you very strongly these last few days of the course.  Regardless of what you say I shall put my hand on your thigh and continue to do so until you find it quite a natural and desirable thing. Surprise--didn't think there was a prudish bone in your body.

Today, we had one officer missing from the class, which indicates that a wedding was taking place somewhere.  I am curious to hear what developments will occur.

This coming Saturday will mark my last weekend away.  I should be chez-moi the Sunday following at about noon--if all goes well.  Is there any procedure you would like me to follow?  Shall I surprise you by just walking in?. . . Shall we have time for ourselves that day?

Sent your mother and Rita an Easter card.  Did you like the one I sent Djinna?  It was the only child's card in the area.  I thought it was a little old for her but there was something about the card that reminded me of her.

No more for now.  A hug and a kiss for baby and for you. . .

Wait, my love

T'is soon tomorrow

Buddy