Dear C–,

We keep cementing the mythology of the night we met every time I meet one of your friends or you mine. It’s almost to the point we’re trading sentences when we respond to someone asking how you and I know each other.

You knew me as the man that showed up alone to the candlelight vigil for the Pulse night club shooting, the man who, after the speaker read only five names on the roll call honoring each of the deceased, arched over his candle and began to weep.

I knew you only as the mysterious arm that appeared around my shoulder. As the reassuring voice that told me it would be okay, and that you would be there as long as I need you.

I suspected that when you said that, you meant it for only the couple of minutes it would take to pull myself together, that we’d have this beautiful moment and just move on.

But then you stuck around!

It’s been more than a year already, and our friendship has given me hope that, despite the world being in a perpetual state of collapse, we can still build things today that can not only stay, but also withstand constant change.

That flowers can bloom from pots of dirt.

Happy birthday, mon petit chou!
TK