Episode 27: Remembering Thank You

Hi everyone, I hope you’re doing as well as you can be today. This week’s poem and episode explore the feelings associated with reconnecting with a mentor, friend, coach, teacher, or anyone who offered guidance to you as a kid or teenager. The poem takes place after lost contact and many years have passed between these two people, which I think happens more often than we admit. This episode conveys what it means to reach out again (if appropriate and safe, of course), and specifically that remembering doesn’t just mean “not forgetting”—it means saying “thank you” wherever and however we can. 

I’ll share it with you now:

What does it mean to remember someone?

Not someone who’s passed away, but
someone we haven’t spoken to in years
who was once a reason we survived?

Of course, it means
to not forget them,
which is to say
‘thank you’ fiercely,

as in speaking, writing,
crying gratitude

before it’s too late,
but even if it is;

as in timidly texting them when
the last time they saw you,
you were a kid;

as in reaching out when
you’re so afraid

you’ve disappointed them
in how you’ve changed, 

though you’ve never felt worthy

of letting yourself down;

as in choosing, now,
to embody a moment
you’ve forgotten: in
grade six they told you it was okay
to get & be angry &
this was the first
time you felt free;

as in forgiving yourself
for no longer being able
to do the thing
they truly believed you could,

and settling for its ghost
when longing persists, knowing

that when irreversible wounds
can’t heal (like a tree’s callus tissue)
it doesn’t mean you gave up;

as in maybe sharing
the truth about these
wounds with them;

as in never knowing
what you were capable of
with this thing &

acknowledging
that you scraped & used it

raw to escape & cope

and only recognized love
when you noticed that
this thing has felt the
same in your hands
for fifteen years &
like your heart, still
bounces & beats;

as in taking a deep breath
to hold that their belief in
you was never conditional;

as in believing that your
pain, grief, and loss are
still alive & this is
not your fault;

as in believing that
you are
still alive & this

is your brave fault
because it’s not a fault;

as in apologizing for waiting
ten years to say these things—

that they were often your model
of care, safety, and home;

that you don’t have words
to tell them 

what it meant for them 

to be excited to see you
after all this time
when the version of you they 

know best is still a teenager—

the kid your shame clings to;

as in knowing you can’t apologize
for not fighting hard enough
because the time & energy
they thoughtfully gave you

was never about that

just as it wasn’t about
the familiar orange & blue
highschool walls or how
you remember when
the scuffed hardwood
used to be rubberized
or how the track is still gravel

& you smile & when
you leave, again,
your tears break
smacking the panes
of your sunglasses
on your jog home.

It was about how they always
turned the lights on for you
at the crack of dawn as if
you were a reason for light
before daybreak—
in the gym, classroom, and your soul

which might be the reason
you finally wrote this poem.

Breathe the words in. What do they make you feel or think? How did they connect with your senses? What colours or symbols did you notice? What meaning did you draw? Metaphors? Interpretations? Clarity? Messages?