I realized something today.
I was out for a walk and I came across a patch of wild miniature violets. I have a soft spot for these violets, you see. They grew in my Grandma's lawn and I would delight in them when they bloomed. I'd pick them and savour their super sweet smell and would make darling tiny bouquets in teeny shot-glasses or cut glass perfume bottles. And I'd also take some and press them in the pages of a book. And promptly forget about them until later when I'd crack the pages once again and they would tumble out like little flat pieces of spring
So the thing I realize is that as much as I enjoy the convenience of reading books on my iPad there is no way I can squish flowers in it.
And you can't hide a tender letter in it. Or a funeral tract. Or a forgotten grocery list.
Kind of bittersweet.