You gave me a photograph once, in the days when such a thing meant something. In the photo, you were leaning on a giant teddy bear, pulling its arm tightly across your waist. I inferred so many things about that photo. I bought a simple frame at Goodwill and hung the photo on the wall of my dorm. Thinking back it makes me laugh, how disposable images have become, how easy, how replaceable. That photo was my constant inspiration, distraction, and healing icon. It was my ticket to stay home when everyone else tumbled through parties and dances.

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A few weeks ago you changed your Facebook profile and I clicked the heart button.

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I would call you, long distance, in the days when such a thing was precious. Your mother would answer, or your sister, and they would make small talk while you took the portable phone into your room. The static as you switched it on was their cue to hang up. We would talk about stupid things, about everything except feelings, everything except the future, everything except all of those things that seem so dear to me now. I could never say "I miss you" only that "I miss hanging out with you" for fear the former was too forward. It's so easy to regret those days when you lacked the wisdom to realize that there wasn't any magic key that you were missing, only experiences, only context, only the willingness to risk.

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At the reunion, you introduced me to your boyfriend and his kids from a previous marriage.

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I still have the photo, it is packed away in a box of college debris: comic books, academic papers I won awards for, the hardbound copy of my thesis; still in that Goodwill frame. I could scan it or take a photo of it with my phone. I could post it to socials and tag you with your new name. I could ask you again why you gave it to me in the first place.

I could realize that photo was your gesture, and it was my response that was lacking.