I went to town today to find you a thank you card. A printed piece of paper with words to tell you how I feel.
You’re a pal, not someone I know well. Our lives have crossed, but I haven’t earned from you what you give.
Yet give and give and give, you do.
You were there the day after our lives changed. You didn’t know, but you sensed the hurt we were trying to hide. You knew what to ask, knew when and knew how.
And you’ve been there since.
Your phone calls, your messages. A thought, a share, a like. All the right things, at all the right times.
When I couldn’t get the drugs right you said, be calm. When I worried over my children you said, we’re here. I couldn’t find my voice. You said, just write. And when I did, you told me you were glad.
And then you sent song lyrics that made me smile.
You give money you can’t afford, time you don’t have. You push your friends to give, then push again.
And then you ask once more: “This is different, this is personal,” you said.
You talk a lot which makes me laugh, but you say the right things. Like me you cry easily, yet not tears for their own sake. Just in the right places and for the right reasons.
You both have your hands full; you too have a future that is uncertain. And still you look in our direction, not your own.
I went into town today and I couldn’t find a card. Not one that had the right words. Not one that even came close.
No writer has the words to tell you how you have moved me. Except perhaps one.
This is different, this is personal. So I wrote this for you.