partial to parcels

Parcels possess potential. A package wrapped in parchment paper, arriving in the pitch-black of a pristine winter night, packed with peanut brittle. A present containing a purple umbrella – protection against the pitter-patter of a rainy day in Pennsylvania. A paperback Pride and Prejudice with a petite pile of post-it notes, for Professor Pavlo's English 101: the personal reading assignment. It can be anything you want it to be, up until the moment you peel back the wrappings – a pleasant surprise, a mysterious perfection.

Parcel pronounces prettily. The perfect elision from the 'par-' to the '-cel' presenting a poetic partnership of syllables paired in auditory heaven; the two separated ever-pining for each other in the most pathetic of parted-lovers' sighs. One without the other is powerless, pitiful, perished. Preposterous perspiration and panic-inducing paralysis of my pulmonary system demonstrate my most profound passion for 'parcel.'

Parcels play phonetically. With so many possibilities for fortunate spelling faux-pas of this divine word, misspelling is probably more profitable than pernicious. Some strikingly pleasant examples: parsley, atop a prodigious portion of steak, for example; a parasol, for protection against the parching blaze of the summer sun; and Parseltongue, resulting from a particularly egregious error leading to the name of a peculiar language spoken by a certain Mr. H. Potter.

Who isn't partial to parcels? They are perfect.