Like snow, like no free shipping, like waxy tomatoes. It's part of the deal. You can't be mad about it any more than you can be mad at your driveway for icing over.
Before she left, Becca was part of a public art exhibit here in town. I refused to take the cast-off junk she tried to dump on me, but was later forced to admit that really the scooters were fun and Wonder was a great book and we'd already finished the leftover homemade granola she'd crammed into mismatched old yogurt containers.
I've put her portrait and her words here. I love and miss you, Becca.
