For the past couple of weeks, in the back seat of my truck lie two small blocks of packing foam—trash by all appearances, except to me.
As I loaded my truck a couple of weeks ago bound for a new chapter in my life, I worried aloud to my daughter that some of the load might shift and damage my vehicle. She spotted the foam and suggested it as a solution. Effusive with my praise, I said we should cut the foam and I showed her how to use a saw, all the time chatting about life, listening to the concerns of a 10-year-old girl and absorbing the conversation.
