I remember the last time we met face-to-face,
when we still talked without a mask,
when we had less than six feet between us.
No, further back,
seven months ago.
I remember the principal standing on the podium
in the middle of the grand chapel,
Christmas decorations still hanging from the ceiling.
I remember her words,
“We will have to go remote for school
for at least two weeks”.
I remember the students,
and how the whole room stirred.
Each word our principal said
were like drops of water in a lake,
creating ripples that disturbed the calm waters.
Grumbles of dismay,
mumbles and whispers.
The chapel suddenly felt dim,
dark despite the stained glass window
and the chandelier that hung from the middle.
Two weeks.
It felt like eternity then.
But it feels like two minutes now.
I remember walking to the bus stop with you.
Hugging you and saying good-bye.
“See you in two weeks,” we exchanged.
Two weeks.
We believed it then.
But it feels laughable now.
And now seven months have passed,
and I haven’t seen your face since then.
And I want to let you know that I remember.
I remember your laugh,
I remember your smile.
I remember the way you talked,
I remember the times you made me chuckle.
I remember comparing grades and test answers,
though grades have grown into something that doesn’t really matter.
It was the times that we spent together that do.
And I remember all of them.
Do you?
Do you remember the times we spent together,
laughing and talking about favorite band members?
Do you remember the snacks we shared,
while discussing the new albums released?
Do you remember the homework we did together,
going off topic every few minutes?
Do you remember walking through the middle school courtyard,
chatting about idle subjects?
I used to take these moments for granted,
but now I realize,
these are what are important,
those small moments.
And, frankly, they’re what’s keeping me sane.
So thank you,
for those tiny crucial moments
that make me smile
each and every day.
And I want you to know
that after seven months,
I still remember you.
And I miss you.
when we still talked without a mask,
when we had less than six feet between us.
No, further back,
seven months ago.
I remember the principal standing on the podium
in the middle of the grand chapel,
Christmas decorations still hanging from the ceiling.
I remember her words,
“We will have to go remote for school
for at least two weeks”.
I remember the students,
and how the whole room stirred.
Each word our principal said
were like drops of water in a lake,
creating ripples that disturbed the calm waters.
Grumbles of dismay,
mumbles and whispers.
The chapel suddenly felt dim,
dark despite the stained glass window
and the chandelier that hung from the middle.
Two weeks.
It felt like eternity then.
But it feels like two minutes now.
I remember walking to the bus stop with you.
Hugging you and saying good-bye.
“See you in two weeks,” we exchanged.
Two weeks.
We believed it then.
But it feels laughable now.
And now seven months have passed,
and I haven’t seen your face since then.
And I want to let you know that I remember.
I remember your laugh,
I remember your smile.
I remember the way you talked,
I remember the times you made me chuckle.
I remember comparing grades and test answers,
though grades have grown into something that doesn’t really matter.
It was the times that we spent together that do.
And I remember all of them.
Do you?
Do you remember the times we spent together,
laughing and talking about favorite band members?
Do you remember the snacks we shared,
while discussing the new albums released?
Do you remember the homework we did together,
going off topic every few minutes?
Do you remember walking through the middle school courtyard,
chatting about idle subjects?
I used to take these moments for granted,
but now I realize,
these are what are important,
those small moments.
And, frankly, they’re what’s keeping me sane.
So thank you,
for those tiny crucial moments
that make me smile
each and every day.
And I want you to know
that after seven months,
I still remember you.
And I miss you.
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