"Look at this character for 'love,'" my aunt said, pointing to the postcard she'd written me. "I can never get this part right. It's too cramped." She smiled, a girlish shyness flashing in her eyes. "Just like how I felt back then. I thought my heart was full, but I hadn't even left room for myself in a single character."
I looked closely at the character she'd written. Sure enough, the space between its components seemed cramped and uneasy, as if something were blocking it and keeping the whole character from breathing.
My aunt's handwriting truly began to change after she married my uncle.
