First, she gave me thread bracelets,
red and blue, woven tight.
I wore them till they frayed,
walking home each night.
Then came origami notes,
folded birds with careful creases.
Each one held three simple words,
left on my desk in morning pieces.
Summer brought us closer still,
guitar strings beneath park trees.
She taught me basic chords,
patient with my clumsy keys.
Years later, those threads are gone,
the paper birds long lost.
But when I strum those same three chords,
I feel what they all cost.
Now my daughter asks to learn
the songs I used to play.
I tie a red and blue thread bracelet,
starting our own way.
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