Tomorrow you will board a plane,
carrying you further than the eight
hours we share between us now.
Between bites of fluffed pancakes
drenched in syrup, I sang the first
song you, a year ago asked me
if I would echo: it is well with my
soul. I stared ahead, a scarecrow
waving a friendly, permanent smilie.
Tears found their way later, holding
the cat to my chest. I wanted
answer to a question she could
never understand: why does
goodbye seem to hurt worse
when we’re already far apart?
She purred on. Oblivious to how
I wore this purple blanket you left
by accident months ago, around my
waist. Reminding I am royalty,
worth brusing, scrapes, and death.
Chosen by our beloved Father above
to speak life over this sorrow,
wishing me weak. I don’t know how
else to tell you while this moon
captures me outside my
window, I miss you. I pray He loves
you through every person daring bid
you hello. I pray you wow one of
those people with random facts
you happen to pick up. I pray if you
ever feel low and the temptation to
give up hope begs to pursue you,
a garden with orchids, magnolias,
and any other sweet scented flower
finds you. Sit in the rain at least once
and remember how alive our
laughter mingled with the earth. I am
thankful you’ve walked with through
this life with tenderness, grace, and
quietly confessed truth. Here is
another you know so well: I love you.
Dear friend, may Jesus bless, keep,
and shine His face brightly upon you.
May I know this isn’t the end of our
friendship, but another step toward