this made me think of you

On Saturday night, I received a message from an old friend. Sometimes I come across poems that make me think of you, but I never share them. I’m gonna start sharing. And then, a poem about the sea. 

We knew each other a long time ago, and because we were in drama school together, he has long been acquainted with some secret part of me. We know each other the way only those who have been other people together can. 

When his name appeared on the screen of my phone, I thought of how we used to lean into each other side by side on the subway after a long day of pretending. Once, we played out a scene of rage, making believe the fold-out couch in our acting studio was a queen bed at the Renaissance Hotel. Him in a plush bathrobe, me swallowing tears. Him calling me a trick question, me calling him endlessly disappointing. At the end of the scene, we always moved close to one another to receive notes, his head often on my shoulder. This is someone who knows me, who saw something that moved him, who thought of me. 

This made me think of you. This reminded me of you. I thought you’d like this. These are among my favorite phrases—the most tender, most intimate.  

When I saw these messages from my friend on Saturday, I was just waking up having undergone an emergency surgery. I’m home and happy and feeling good and healing well. I will have five new scars on my abdomen and will take away from the weekend many things: A kind nurse named Boris, bright yellow hospital socks, and fascinating MRI pictures of my spinal column as it looked in June the summer I was 35, images I will treasure. What I will remember most is the wild care from friends near and far. 

One friend sat outside in the park, recorded birdsong, and sent it to me so I could listen to it from my hospital bed. 

Another sent a video of the sea at sunset and swooping birds. I wanted you to see this. 

Another set up his camera in the backyard and angled it so I could see both him and the moon, then read poems to me from a book he found in a thrift store. These made me think of you. 

An incomplete list of other offerings: A bouquet called “Tenderness” and another called “Helios,” unnamed wildflower bouquets and a bundle of daffodils, memes of sad ghosts, photographs of beautiful trees, articles about shells and the discovery of ancient bird bone flutes. 

These notes sustained me to such an extent over the weekend, that I can hardly believe my luck that these sorts of messages are not out of the ordinary.

I have a friend who sends photos of flowers she thinks I’ll like and who makes bits of woven art for me to hang above my desk, talismans for strength and protection and creativity, yarn she’s chosen because they’re the colors of the sea and the sky and my hair. She knows my heart. 

Someone I love very much regularly sends me photos of the moon.

I have a friend who sends videos of the cardinals nesting in front of her home and the deer that visit her yard.

I have a friend who sends songs (You’ll like this) and another who simply writes, I’m thinking of you. I have a friend who does all of the above. 

What a gift, to have beloveds reflecting back small pieces of me they encounter in the world. Especially when I am tired. Especially when I am in pain. Especially when I am nursing stitches and trying to remind myself who I am. To be known and seen is no small thing. To have yourself gifted back to you in moons and green paths and good songs is no small thing. I’m all gratitude tonight.

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