I Still Remember Your Birthday

I still remember your birthday.

Months before Halloween, it haunts me like a specter.

I imagine you celebrating with the girl you chose. I wonder if she’s met the version of you that changed me.

Do you remember me at all? My name? How we met? How it ended? The time at the coffee shop when we physically ran into each other?

I don’t want the knowledge of your existence. I don’t want the yearly reminder of your life.

I still remember your birthday.

It was the day of the deepest conversation we’d had yet. You waited so long to tell me it was your day.

That’s how you are.

You held my hand under the table like the world might see.

I am different since you and because of you. I no longer disappear.

I hope you are happy.

I still remember your birthday.

In each of my yearly planners, I draw a heart on March 7. But I draw another on December 30 for you, too.

My second mom, my bookish friend, how I wish you were here. I have A & Z bookends because of you, but mine aren’t yellow.

There is so much I have to tell you.

I still remember your birthday.

Even though we aren’t friends, and we haven’t been friends for a while.

But there was a time when I would buy you a gift, and I would know exactly what to buy because I knew you so well.

You didn’t do anything wrong, and neither did I. It just happened in that way it does.

I miss your dog, your mother, and your kindness.

I remember you fondly.

I still remember your birthday.

I know it better than my own. It’s the day that everything changed.

Please stay young just a little longer. I’m not ready for you to remember people’s birthdays, to experience heartache, to experience this world.

Talk to me about letters and colors on the drive home. Call out for me just to make sure I’m still there.

I’m still here.