At 16, I was careless with friends. I didn't know better. I didn't know what it meant when someone took the time to call you, regularly, so the calls settle into their own rhythm. I didn't know what it meant when someone could drive across cities to see you, and ask for nothing in return. I hadn't yet learned to value friendships the way I do now. I was intellectually precocious and emotionally young.
At 16, a boy drew for me. He drew me a tiger. I have always liked tigers, and even now, my house is full of them: as paper sculptures, as prints and sketches, as figures and toys.
At 16, no one knew I liked tigers, and when he gave it to me, I thought the tiger meant finally being seen.
The boy stopped coming to my house, and he stopped calling, and I can't remember why. But I kept the tiger, and I kept that memory, and I have carried it ever since.
At 45, I told the boy who was no longer a boy that the tiger held. That the paper was whole. That the strokes and lines were still clear. And that it was still mine.
At 45, I asked the boy who was now a man if I could have another tiger, and he said yes.
At 45, decades away from the moment of hand-off, years and lives away from the memory, I hope he knows that he mattered. That his gift mattered. That I have carried his mattering, and the memory of being seen for almost 30 years, even if the architecture around the gift has already fallen.
And that I carried, and saw him, too.