Olive, you love texture. You want to touch whatever you see. You don’t discriminate. You like the smooth, grooved surface of the butcherblock kitchen table. You like the lacquered, pitted surface of our tall wooden chairbacks. You like the scratchy canvas of the striped lumbar pillow. You love grabbing a fistful of cat fur. In the mornings, you like absentmindedly moving your fingers through daddy’s beard. You even seem to like the feel of wool sweaters that daddy always found itchy. On the balance, Olive, you have an adventurous sense of touch. But not as adventurous as your sense of taste, which compels you to eat everything you’ve touched.