We’re all collectors, accumulating pieces of others. Wrapping a laugh in a bow, capturing an interest of someone’s in a bottle, gingerly nesting them on our shelves.
My favorites sit front and center tucked behind sheets of glass, in frames of gold.
That filmy night, the grass poking up through your curls as your finger traced its way across the sky. To Venus then The Seven Sisters.
The “You’re a good writer” hidden in a string of conversation after you read one of my stories for school.
It’s not often we realize when others change us, in these moments I knew.