Hanging from my bedroom doorknob is half of a pink plastic heart with half of the phrase “best friends” that I split with my neighbor in elementary school.
In a shoebox in my closet, I have a scrap of yellowed notebook paper with flower stickers and a landline phone number from the first time I was ever asked on a date.
In an empty tin of wasabi gumballs in my nightstand drawer, I have a lucky orange marble that belonged to my 6th grade best friend.
I am a product of skateboards and Polly Pockets, of cannonballs and karaoke.
One of my favorite necklaces was a gift from a middle school boyfriend.
I have a soft spot in my heart for frozen hot chocolate because of the people that introduced me to it.
One year for my birthday, I asked for a clear bubble umbrella because a friend gushed about how delightful it was to watch the rain while being protected from it.
I am a product of the people who loved me.
People I no longer see. People I no longer talk to. People who are no longer here.
It may be ten years since your name lit up my phone screen, but there is a song that forever locks me in to you. And I am grateful for that.
I used to think that some people came into your life forever and others only for a season. But now I’m not so sure. Because looking at that umbrella or drinking a frozen hot chocolate or listening to The Gardener by The Tallest Man on Earth, will always take me back to people too dynamic, too beautiful, too timeless to ever really lose.
May we all find the peace, the gratitude, the joy in that.
Love always,
Liz
