I haven’t said it yet, but I miss you. Our talks, our emails. The kind of friend you were. You took it seriously, friendship. You drove to see me after I moved away. One of the only friends who did. And it’s not the thoughtful birthday and Christmas presents. The last time you visited me – remember? You had a present for my cat from your cat. It was so earnest and so damn sweet. When you said goodbye you kissed the top of the cat’s head, like a blessing. It’s so pressed into my memory, that image, the cat’s eyes closing for a moment.
I have your letters and cards and some photos of you, somewhere safe. Where is another story. My memory has gone to hell and I miss the conversations we never got to have about aging. If I dig up those letters, I’ll cry. I’ll read them all, your letters and cards, you always wrote so much. Thank Christ I saved them.
I still have that umbrella you gave me. The popup one with different colored panels. What made it such a thoughtful present was that I needed one, one just like that. You didn’t know this, but somehow you did. It still works. I had to sew the fabric back onto the ribs a few times. I just can’t let it go. Silly, right? It’s not you I’d be throwing away, or your laugh or the café mochas or the frozen yogurt we ate with your dad, or Disneyland. I’ll keep it a little longer, I think, and see how I feel. What would you do, if you were me?