“Everybody owns a thing a person leaves behind when they leave us, and we’re all familiar with the way that thing morphs into something sacred and symbolic.” – Jozen

There are pieces of you everywhere now. Some of them, most of them, you gave me. Some of them, one thing, I took; You might have actually given it to me but I can’t figure out if it was an accident or not.

The first thing you ever gave me was a wine bottle on which you’d taken great care in writing my name in big graffiti letters spotted with bubbles and drips. You only did one “S”, explaining to me that graffiti is stupid when you have double letters because one always ends up looking better than the other. Because you’re completely OCD like me, this made sense. And I was happy to have my own little nickname from you, one that I wouldn’t come to share with your dog later on. We weren’t dating when you made it for me, in fact, we’d never met each other in person at that point in time.

We’d skype for hours upon hours and you’d sit there with your paint pens drawing and periodically showing me the progress when you got over having your tortured artist ‘I hate everything I create’ moments. I loved it, I still do. It may not be your best work, but it’s special to me.

Every time I move, which is more than I’d like to admit, I carefully pack it and make sure no heavy boxes end up on top of it, or nothing gets close enough to scratch any paint off, because I doubt I can make any special requests from you at this point in time. I’d then proudly display the bottle again when I unpack in my new place. It was my attempt in commissioning artwork from you for free, and, because you thought I was pretty, you obliged.

The second thing you gave me was a stuffed panda, which was actually the first thing, because it was the first tangible object that I touched aside from you that had to do with you. I have it here next to me right now like I always do. It’s been loved almost beyond recognition of being a panda. It’s white fur has yellowed and it’s no longer silky soft like it was when you surprised me with it in the front seat of your car at the DC airport. You told me once that I should wash it and I looked at you like you were crazy. So, no, I haven’t washed it. That’d be like exchanging it for a new one that wasn’t from you. So it sits here yellowed, tatty looking and loved day in and day out.

Then there was that lucky cat. We went to the mall, because that’s where you go to eat when you live in the county on the East Coast as far as I know. Ruby Tuesday’s or something fancy along those lines. There was a line so we’d put our names down to wait. You said you wanted to go look for a hat, or underwear, or a shirt. Something boring and errand-y. So I stayed put to make sure we got a table. You strolled up 15 minutes later with that look on your face; the look a 1st grader gives when he’s about to give the girl he likes a present, or punch her; half giddy and half disgusted. Begrudgingly happy with yourself. You held out your hand and mumbled “I got you this,” as you shoved the cat into mine (Just like when you practically threw my christmas present at my face that one year). It was little and yellow sitting with one paw raised and a cheeky smile on a coiled spring. A dashboard ornament.

I’ve yet to put it on a car, my thought process being that of ‘what if I get a new car and then have to rip the sticky part off and it wont stick on the new one?’, so it sits on my desk bobbing around gently when I type. Sometimes I pick it up and fawn over it for a little before putting it down just before I get too sad. It was quite possibly the nicest gift you’ve ever given me because there wasn’t any reason behind it other than you simply saw something that made you think of me.