Rooted

An ode to friendship and one friend in particular. Thank you, Hannah, for holding me up when I was sure I would fall. Love you to the moon and back.

Rooted

Her hair is soft and silken and thin, like a child's.
She has green eyes that have storms in them, and I can tell when one is coming.
She laughs easily and infectiously and  often
Her handwriting makes me feel nostalgic.

In photos, she often doesn't smile,
Afraid you'll see her braces, like a dirty secret.
It makes her look serious, intense, ethereal.

When she was a little girl,
she washed her snoopy doll until he was waterlogged and limp.
She loved him ragged.

She has never liked Christmas
But hung the first ornament on my tree,
Because she was trying.

Sometimes, when I am tired and worn thin with living,
I will lay my head in her lap,
And she'll stroke my hair,
Slow and steady strokes.

She only owns one pair of jeans,
But two pairs of harem pants.
She doesn't wear much makeup,
And her eyeshadow is cracked and dry,
Wistful and forgotten.

I have seen her angry and I have seen her frightened,
But neither one very often.
Once, she made us all hang bits of paper on a tree in the school quad,
wishes written on them with pens she passed around the lunch table.

She wanted them to hang there, as reminders,
And she wanted them to grow.
That was months ago,
But the wish tree is still there,
Surviving the weather,
Humbly holding our dreams,
Rooting us to a bright and shining future.