My People

An unexpected package was on my porch today.  I held it in my hands and turned it over, thinking of everything I’ve ordered online recently.  I have been known to shop online in the middle of the night as a way to stay awake while at work but this, from the bookstore, doesn’t jog my memory. 

I grab it on my way into the car, open it, and am instantly brought to tears. It’s from one of my people, the people in my world who think of me, and act.  She knew I was struggling, suggested a book, and when I blew her off, said I was too busy to read, she sent it anyways.  Perhaps I didn’t need the book as much as I needed to remember who my people are.

My people are the ones who act – they send the book.  

They call and facetime, because it’s warmer than a text.  They move their clients to fit with my days off.  I wake to photos of their kids, and have a good day messages, unflattering salon selfies, and videos of noodles being slurped. 

They remember my hard days, 11 years later.  I don’t know if they have to written somewhere or if my hard days are hard days for them too.  Either way, they remember, and act.  They keep my stuff tight but bring it out after a few drinks.  They know the ins and outs of me, and we laugh, from our bellies, once it’s moved into a funny, but never before.  They know that timeline without fail. 

They make me coffee when I pop in, and I pop in a lot.  My people made me dinners after every baby.  I didn’t cook for weeks on end after each birth.  Still to date, when they’ve made too much, extras show up at mine. Grapefruit in bulk gets split and half ends up with me. 

My people send me songs on the regular.  They think, Virginia would like this, and they act.  It’s simple but sometimes that song winds up on repeat and it might just be everything I needed on that particular day.  We drive, wild, song for song to the beach in the late fall.  My people say yes to fried chicken from the other side of town, because I want it and they trust it will be worth it. 

They love the way I walk in their homes, shoes off, arms open.  My style is not only appreciated, but I am told when it is missed.  My people tell me when they miss my presence in their homes, around their children.  I sit in their shops, an unpaid employee for the day at the counter, fed salami sandwiches when I get hungry.  My people like having me around, I never question if I’m too much.

We go consignment shopping together.  More importantly, if I can’t go, I know the things that have my name all over it will still get purchased.  I never miss a deal, even if I am not physically there. 

My people fly to see me and my children, they are at all big stuff without fail.  They wake early to get scones because they are my favourite.  They know the exact way I say their name determines my level of stoned.  My people know the things about me, they remember, and act:

They send the book, the book that I say I am too busy to read, and they remind me who my people are.