In every home there seems to be a communal catchall of sentiments. A cauldron's concoction of stuck together polaroids, birthday cards, and handwritten notes with no chronological correlation. Tristan and I had been together for years when I unearthed his personal box of assorted memories (deep under the bed where one keeps only their most treasured possessions). We laughed as we filed through some very tasteful roller coaster photos, impressively accurate portraits drawn by his little sister, and a coveted young author's award medal. When we reached the bottom of the crate, I was shocked to see MY elementary school year book. It was the only one I'd ever owned and the emerald green cover was immediately recognizable. But when I opened the book- where I should have seen the shaky scrawl of my third grade classmates demanding I have a good summer- I saw the more refined font of fourth graders promising Tristan they'd see him next year. It's likely we'd discussed the two years I spent at his elementary school- but for the first time it dawned on us that for two entire years we played on the same play ground (My days of competitive boxball didn't allow for much socialization). We attended the same book fairs (Junie B. Jones and Captain Underpants were NEVER in the same aisle.) We even rode the same bus. Only one stop apart. Just four streets away. Invisible strings so long that they wouldn't pull us together for ten more years.

I'd like to think that we exchanged glances Maybe traded a quiet hello I count invisible strings like my chances Children letting helium balloons go You passed me by down bus aisles And now you wait down one for me A short walk that feels more like miles Like the two that separated out streets Something old, something new Tied in irrevocable knots Something borrowed, something blue Every glance from your eyes that childhood forgot