I saw you in the sanctuary with a backwards Blink-182 hat and black and white checkered vans. My white summer dress adorned self was instantly bound to you. You were the technicolor dream I was waiting for to paint over my vanilla life. You were injured, abandoned, you slept on the floor because your mom gave your mattress a way to a ‘family in need’. You gave meaning to my life, as I waited all week just for you to show up to Thursday practice, Sunday’s youth group. Just a glimpse of you and I felt alive. I felt happy.
Then your fifteen year old self disappeared to rehab in Mexico. Nobody knew but your parents, my parents and me. I wrote you letters, hoping they found their way to you. Never knowing.
I saw you one more time at Shari’s when I was finally over 18, over curfew, and could stay out past 9PM. You didn’t see me.
And then, years later, as I grieved over tragedy, you sent me a Facebook message. You became a DJ, you made a mix to make me feel better. You said it was the least you could do after all the letters I sent to Mexico kept you alive.