I drafted a birthday text for you on my lunch break today. I was sitting at the folding table in the break room, the one with the short leg. I always have to prop it with a stack of deposit slips.
I typed and erased a dozen times. I wanted to say something real, something that didn't sound like a store-bought card. But I couldn't get the words right.
My lunch break ran long. I kept staring at the little blinking cursor. I thought about the time we shared a room as kids, the way you always saved me the last piece of cornbread.
I never sent it. I put the phone away and went back to the counter.
Later that afternoon, a regular customer brought me a jar of homemade fig preserves. She said she had extra and thought of me. I opened the lid right there, and the smell of summer hit me.
I thought of you then, and I smiled. I realized I didn't need to send the text. You already know. You've always known.