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The Futility, and Fickleness, of Gifts

             Before I begin my story, I feel like everyone should know I’ve graduated to that phase of life where I have to use a larger than 12-point font. I don’t understand how I can go to the eye doctor every year, and even though my eyes get worse and worse (and worse. Thanks Mom), she gives me an updated contact prescription so I can see the same. YET. My eyesight still gets worse? The amount of squinting at the clock I’ve begun doing in the past couple of years, is astonishing. Is there an adult merit badge for this?              Anyway.             The story of this post begins in the Fall of 1997. I was a newly minted 13-year-old, but this part of the story isn’t about me. It’s about Holly, my little sister. She was getting ready to turn 7 on Christmas that year (her name has nothing to do with being born on Christmas)(it’s the only name my parents could agree on)(well, that and April, but who the heck would name a kid April that was born on Christmas? Hindsight is 20/20. Sh

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