I sent you 3 care packages this year. You marveled at my picks. But since we were 12, I've known you & what you like. It shouldn't be a surprise.

A month after my birthday, you texted: happy birthday.
Afterward, I sent a message every week. No reply—
till this morning, when I found
three hairs in my sink shaped like your initials.
Relief. Three weeks late—our friendship runs on slow time.

Your message says your sister had her baby.
You’re sending a package but need my address—
I sent ten letters this year & it's on each envelope; 
all probably in the trash. I know better 
than to expect everyone to save like I do.

Did you know I have everything you ever gave me?
All the notes passed in the school hall, folded into shapes,
even things from when we were roommates.
It feels foolish now. I remember us at twelve:
you in choir, me in band, rooms next to each other.
We walked together—band room first.
I stood there with my stupid flute case,
watching you walk the hall.

It feels foolish to remember
that day you wore a black cardigan
down to your knees, hair loose,
sunlight streaming through the knit.
I can’t recall you looking back,
but I always watched you go
till you reached the door.

My God, I was ready to text:
It’s been three weeks.
You don’t have to pretend your my friend. 
Just let me know you’re alive.

Instead, I reply: A package is nice. Thank you.

And I mean it.
Be late, don't send letters, give no gifts.
Forget my birthday. Forget my middle names.
What's Christmas?
I don’t mind. Really.

All I need is to watch you to the door,
always know you’re okay, safe & sound,
like everything you ever gave me—
something that no one can take.