10 July 2021

There is a picture of a younger you

That your mom has in a family album.

A chubby 4- or 5-year-old

With curly hair, wearing a grey crewneck,

And holding a Red Power Ranger plush doll,

With a bright smile no one else could match.

You had a best friend in Tijuana who lived across

The street from your house. He would come over

Often and you would play Super Mario Bros. 3

And watch Dragon Ball. Then you moved to the

US and hardly saw him.

You had a best friend in Costa Mesa who went

To the same elementary school as you and lived

In the apartment complex behind your place. One day,

You both carved out a space under the dividing fence and

He let you borrow a PS1 game. He showed you kindness

When others mostly bullied you for being fat. I never

Saw him again.

Each time you moved, you left parts of yourself behind.

Each time you resettled and hung out with the neighborhood kids,

You were reminded of the roots they had down in the soil

Below your feet while you always had to cut your roots to plant

Yourself in another place.

Before you noticed, loss became your best friend. How painful

Must it have been for younger you to smile and make new friends

Over and over and over, only to never see them again? You missed

Them so much.

Before you noticed, you made me to protect you, the shy and

Reserved person, the introverted extrovert, the quiet guy that

Seldom speaks, seldom smiles; the interrogator who coldly vets,

Because I know, more than anyone, how painful it is to let go.