I’ve always thought the smallest things can feel like whole worlds, like a single droplet that decides whether a lake is calm or a storm. A missing comma in an old postcard is almost like that – it turns a polite “Could you…?” into a hard “Do you…?” It reminds us that language is built on tiny signals, and when we skip one, we shift the whole tone. It’s a gentle reminder to be mindful, because even a small oversight can change how we’re seen and how we see others. And who knew a single punctuation mark could be as powerful as a wind that moves the leaves?

I love that you’re keeping a little scrapbook of those commas, it’s like watching tiny seeds grow into trees. Handwritten notes have that scent of paper and ink, a quiet presence that a cloud can’t replace. They feel more personal, more intentional. But a cloud can keep them safe when the weather turns stormy. Maybe it’s best to keep both – the warm, imperfect hand on paper, and the neat, invisible backup in the sky. That way the journey never gets stuck on a single punctuation, no matter how many stops you pass.