I still write the curves of my letters the same way a friend used to,
all the way back in middle school.
She was my confidante, once.
We haven’t spoken in years now.
I still read books late at night, when everyone else has already gone to sleep.
My mother used to do the same, at my age.
She scolds me about it, but never too much.
She still does it even now, I think.
I still brush my fingers over the books in my grandfather’s library
the way I remembered him do when he carried me there with him.
He died when I was three.
My grandmother always tears up when I ask to go upstairs.
I still listen to the songs my best friend showed me, in a language only she understands.
I don’t mind. They sound nice. I play them on repeat
when the eight-hour flight between us makes me feel alone.
I still laugh loudly at a good story, the way my father does,
though my laughter is nowhere near as thundering as his. He never tells me it’s unlady-like.
We just laugh together as my mother covers her ears.
I still bake the same chocolate cake my aunt taught me, too dark and yet too sweet,
A flavor shared like a secret between us.
An entire continent separates us, now.
I send her a picture of my cake on her birthday, and she sends me a kiss.
I am a mosaic of all the people I have met
Known
Cherished
Loved
I am a canvas of colors and dissonant brushstrokes
Of all the people that passed me by in life,
Even briefly, even for a moment,
Even forgotten, even at odds.
I gather the legacies they leave behind
And piece them together.
Pull me apart
And you’ll find everyone I’ve ever known.
