You Saved My Life And I Don’t Even Know Your Name

I see you sometimes. You’re the kid the same age as my little sister who’s crossing the street as I sit in traffic at a red light. You’re the guy whose laugh everyone noticed in the busy restaurant last night. You’re the barista who gives me a large instead of a small. I want to know you. I want to know your family. I want to know what your dreams are. Where do you see yourself in ten years? Do you want a family? Do you like dogs or cats more? Are you a cheese person? Because I can eat a wedge of sharp cheddar at an alarming rate. Can you belt out disco music at the top of your lungs in the shower like me? Do you have brothers or sisters? Are you happy? Are you in love? Then the car behind me honks and shouts because the green light is close to fading to yellow and I realize I’ve been daydreaming about you again. I don’t know anything about you. Not your favorite color. Not the band you listen to on repeat. Not your birthday. Nothing, not even your name. I think about you more than I care to admit. I have all of these questions I would give anything to have answered. But then I remember the question I’ve been asking since you saved my life.

How did you die?

As I write this, there’s a prescription bottle to the right of me. This one pill that I now take will be a part of me until the day I die, just as what you gave to me will be with me until that same day. This little white capsule keeps the organ you gave to me without fear of rejection. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Continue reading

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