Punctuation

My Favorite

You are my favorite.

In the world-spiraling chaos, 

through my anxiety-ridden-hand-washing-compulsions-and-ever-fidgeting knees,

in the times of new situations when I am left trembling, and it's almost as if my brain goes static while the rest of my body grows extravagantly fuzzy in motion...

I run to you, where your arms are perpetually wide open and awaiting my return. 

And as clammy as it was, you proudly, courageously even, clung to my hand throughout the entire prayer, instead of wiping yours on your skirt.

You didn't comment on it or joke about it. Or make me feel disgusting. 

In fact, you squeezed my hand tighter when the prayer was over and when everyone else was letting go to start up their conversations.

Instead of letting go, you stood there with the brightest smile, saying you felt like holding my hand all day and that there was nothing I could possibly do to prevent you.

Slowly and gently, you are summing up who I am. 

It takes no effort on my part, I hardly introduce myself anymore. 

You take my hidden pieces, the ones I hide away from the world in fear, 

and you decipher their meanings all on your own. 

You piece me together behind my back, gaining steady knowledge of who I am in different situations.

Who I am when a room is crowded, 

who I am in a lonesome room, 

who I am in the chaos of human hub-bub, 

who I am in the silence of a car ride. 

You know there are versions of me for every different perspective and you are slowly beginning to understand all of them. 

I know this well due to your loving actions and thoughtful words. 

I know this because you held my hand longer than the prayer lasted and because you told me to stop being squirrely. 

(It's an adjective, a noun, and a verb.) 

You know me when I'm flighty

and when I am overwhelmed. 

You know me when I am thinking ugly thoughts,

and how to castigate them until we are left with only truth and motivations. 

and most importantly, 

you treat me as if I am not truly as fragile as I feel. 

And you make me feel like family. Family true to name. 

You invited me over for leftovers like it's nothing special, but to me, it meant the world. 

A lunch of leftovers will forever mean more to me than if we were sitting down at a fancy restaurant, paying for our food. 

Maybe that's because leftovers make a person feel like she belongs, like she is close enough to you for things to be common, informal, and casual. 

And when you invited me over, you told me it was solely to hug me.

Not to talk through the things I didn't have it in me to talk about. 

Not to find a solution to my problem or fill my ears with your wisdom. 

Just to hug me. 

So when I walked in your door, we said hello in a hug that lasted minutes instead of seconds as tears streamed down my cheeks.

All I released had been suppressed inside of me while I drove to your house. 

Because I didn't want to show up in tears. 

You held me tight, held me together while I let the walls fall down. 

And that was anything to everything that I needed.

Like I said, in the world-spiraling chaos, I run to you...

because you know how to build me up again after I fall. 

This is why you are my favorite.