Here's to a future where you forget what your account balance is — and it's fine.
Fresh today · Friday, 10 July
New Wishes
A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.
May you have all the money in the world, and somehow still find time to call home.
Wishing you the type of wealth that makes you kinder, not louder.
May fortune adopt you, raise you well, and never ask for receipts.
I'd trade every birthday I have left to hear his voice say my name one more time.
If wishing brought people back, my father would already be in the kitchen, complaining about the coffee.
↑ pick one up
Browse by occasion
What are we writing today?
Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.
- Anniversary
- Baby
- Belated
- Best
- Birthday
- Boy
- Boyfriend
- Christian
- Christmas
- Congratulation
- Diwali
- Easter
- Eid Mubarak
- Engagement
- Farewell
- Fathers Day
- Friendship
- Funny
- Get Well
- Girl
- Girlfriend
- Good Morning
- Good Night
- Graduation
- Hanukkah
- Heart Touching
- Holiday
- Invitation
- Job
- Love
- Miss You
- Mothers Day
- New Year
- Recovery
- Retirement
- Romantic
- Thank You
- Thanksgiving
- Wedding
- Well
- Women's Day
- Sympathy
- Valentine's Day
- Halloween
- Veterans Day
More from today
Every quiet evening, I still half-listen for the front door he used to come through.
I keep his old jacket close — it doesn't replace him, but it remembers him better than I can.
Some days the missing is small; today it sits across the table where he used to.
I wish for one more conversation — even an ordinary one, especially an ordinary one.
Dad, if you could step back into this kitchen, I wouldn't ask for advice, just your company.
There's a chair we never moved, in case the wish ever decided to come true.
I'd give up every certainty to have him uncertain about something with me again.
If love had the power to summon, he'd already be standing here, hands in his pockets.
I miss the small things — his keys jingling, his laugh at his own jokes, his footsteps in the hall.
Dad, I'd trade a year of my life for an afternoon of yours.
Some wishes don't come true; we carry them anyway, like keepsakes nobody else can see.
If only the door could open and he could walk in saying just kidding.
I wish him back not because I can't go on, but because going on is heavier without him.
Father, the world built rooms after you left, and none of them have your light in them.
I'd give the universe back a star for every hour of him returned.
Even one more handshake, one more nod, one more steady look — it would be enough for a long time.
Dad, I learned how to be a person from watching you be one; I'd love a refresher.
If grief could trade places with grace, I'd ask grace to bring him back at the door.
There are questions I've saved for him, in a place no one else can read.