On the wall next to my apartment bookshelf hang 5 prints of New York City, decades before I landed at JFK. My mom’s friend took the photos while an art student here. She developed them in a darkroom and put them in frames. On the bookshelf, there are no less than a dozen books I’ve received from casual exchanges with friends: I think you’d like this. Pass it on to the next reader.
In the kitchen there’s a heart-shaped napkin holder my old boss gave me to celebrate my leaving our organization and moving to a job at the American Heart Association. Next to the heart is a felt sunflower that a friend I made through a colleague at that job gave me because she thought I might like it.
Down the hall is a beautiful print from an artist friend. We met through a mutual connection—a cartoonist in North Carolina who encouraged us to get coffee together in New York. I sipped apple cider slowly.
My favorite stuffed animal is a polar bear that my roommates got me from the World Wildlife Foundation (a symbolic adoption!) for my 24th birthday. I named him Pistachio because 3 months prior, I had discovered pistachio ice cream when I went on a work lunch with a colleague and a donor. The donor was given a Neapolitan-esque ice cream to celebrate her birthday and, as she slid a third of the dish toward me, told me she didn’t eat anything green. Pistachio ice cream has been my favorite ever since.
There is a decorative spoon hanging above my coffee bar from my Great Aunt Ceil. A photo of my grandfather and I on my dresser. A print of Pittsburgh from my Kansas-born, Florida-raised sister-in-law. A blanket over the sofa, a housewarming gift from another former boss.
How many people make up a person?
In my apartment alone, I feel our inheritance. An exercise bike from an old roommate. A coffee table from our closest friends.
In my life, it is even more pronounced.
This is the 1001st Smile Project blog. One thousand and one stories that make up me and by extension, then, you as well.
I’d wanted to be a writer my entire life, though I never imagined starting a blog. Despite being pushed on it, it wasn’t until a cool upperclassman at my university really encouraged it that something clicked. Thanks, M.
And this got me to thinking of all the people who pushed on something. Sometimes in loud and disruptive ways. Sometimes in quiet being theres.
But what it really got me to thinking about is the way I am built from bike rides and bonfires. From yellow corn fields capturing the sun each evening. From snap green beans, pulled from a garden. From cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning. From journals and instruments and first loves and last. From sneakers and bell towers and subways and bridges. From fresh bread and hot tea and reunions and love.
But what it really got me to thinking about is the way I am built from love.
There have been—it seems—endless people cheering me on in different ways in every period of my life. I want them to know I am grateful. I want them to know I’m doing more than okay. I want them to know I am thriving and that they are a direct contribution to that.
You are the reason I can write. You are the reason I can love.
How many people make up a person? Infinity.
How many people make up love? Even more.
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