He was born. He came first. A brother I never met, a name rarely spoken, and the quiet inheritance of a life that could have been. This is a letter to the shadow that shaped a family.

It was just a toy store marketing gimmick – a tiny silver key taped to a birthday card. But for kids in 70s and 80s Cincinnati, it unlocked a castle of wrapped gifts… and a moment that said, you matter. This is a love letter to the key, the castle, and the joy that’s lasted 40 years.

They began as scribbles on napkins or whispered dreams before the countdown—promises to become better, braver, new. But over time, those bold declarations softened into something gentler, more human. This is a love letter to New Year’s resolutions: the ones we kept, the ones we didn’t, and the fragile, beautiful hope that dares to return again and again.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just a tree, a rhythm, and the kind of love that never had to speak. A tribute to the glow that outlasts the lights. I miss my parents everyday...

Armed with crumpled bills and a mission of love, a kid sets out through the fluorescent labyrinth of J.C. Penney and Sears, navigating shoulder pads, kitten socks, and perfume counters in search of the perfect gift for his mom. This is a love letter to that first act of giving, the shaky bridge between childhood and something bigger, braver, and beautifully clumsy.

He wasn’t mall Santa. He was firetruck Santa – wind-battered, candy cane clutching, rumbling through your childhood street like a promise that magic still existed. This is a love letter to flashing red lights, bourbon-breathed parents, and the rituals that keep us warm when the world grows cold.

It wasn’t candy. It was communion. A love letter to cut glass, ribbon sweets, and the quiet rituals that still taste like home.

A comet strikes a young Earth… and billions of years later, you’re here. This episode explores the impossible math of existence, the divine absurdity of being alive right now, and the fragile miracle of sharing borrowed time with someone else. A love letter to the unlikeliest truth of all: that we made it.

The door frame’s gone. The voices are fading. But the light—the light’s still traveling.

Paint tubes exploded. Turpentine rivers flowed. And a screaming chimp sat atop the shelves, squeezing burnt umber like Go-Gurt and shitting rainbows. This is a love letter to chaos, to art’s messy truth, and to the chimp who showed us purity is overrated.