In this house, there is always mate.

Most people drink it from a pretty little gourd, and we do, sometimes, but this little white cup with a rose on it is my favorite. It sits at the ready on our counter-top, sometimes still warm and full of tea from the morning, sometimes empty as it waits for tomorrow.

I can picture my mom as a child in Argentina, passing mate around with her Italian family; but now here we are--one olive skinned woman and one fair skinned--taking quick sips together in the morning before we leave the quiet house. 

I think about my father and the freckles and Irish names he passed down to my brother and me, and then I think more deeply about that white cup with a rosy exterior, filled with another culture. It makes sense to me.

June twelfth came and went and hit me with the force of its abruptness.

There are so many things I could say. Sometimes, I want to write them.

Sometimes I try. Sometimes I can't.

You were so goofy. Remember that time we were at the beach and you guys were playing soccer and you kicked the ball and hit my then-boyfriend right in the crotch? I think he threw up. Is it weird that I remember that? I still laugh about it. You were so sorry, but so confused about why he was angry, because you would have never hurt anyone on purpose.

You've been gone a year, but as you can see, you haven't been forgotten.

All dressed up in the summer: 

A big twirly sundress with pockets and buttons down the front.

Where turquoise and orange go together surprisingly well.

And where you never really have to brush your hair.

Tulle Dress: La De Da

Necklace: J.Crew

Watch: Fossil

Shoes: c/o Jigsaw London