I sighed melodramatically as I looked at the tall stack of empty cards and envelopes on my dresser. My mom had tasked me to write thank you letters to each of the people who had attended my seventh birthday party. The unopened layers of paper sat compactly on top of each other, where they had been collecting dust for over a week. Finishing my one last allotted moment of laziness, I grabbed a navy-blue pen with glittery ink and started to write in haphazard letters. When I had finally finished, I ran to my mom to ask her to walk me to the post office. 

The screen door let out a weak, screechy exhale as I exited the house, a neat off-white box with forest-green shutters and a roof that sat too low. As we set off down the sidewalk, I carefully hopped over the cavernous cracks where tree roots had pushed up through the earth. A faint spring breeze rustled through the canopy of leaves that reached over the narrow streets. Daffodils, dogwoods, and crab apple trees blossomed; crocuses budded from the damp soil.

We soon reached the post office, a drab stone building in the small cluster of shops that was the town center. I pulled back the metal door of the post box and dropped the hefty stack of envelopes into the dark opening. Proud that I had fulfilled my responsibility to both my friends and my mom, I strolled back the way we had come with a lightness in my chest.

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My lips parted over my mouth and exposed my crooked teeth as my whole face lit up in a grin. Placed on the dining room table just beside a stack of colorful flyers and serious-looking letters was an envelope covered in mysterious stamps and Korean lettering. Neatly printed in the center was the name of my close friend from third grade, Emily. I eagerly picked apart the fruity scratch-and-sniff stickers that held the envelope closed.

The summer before third grade, I had moved from a small college town on the East Coast to the foreign planet that was Silicon Valley. My new friends, Emily and Jessica, eased the transition. Having all just moved here, we quickly became friends, even though I came from Virginia and they from South Korea. But at the end of the school year they both returned to their birth country, leaving me an ocean away.

I laughed and smiled the first time I read Emily’s letter. At the bottom of the page was a drawing of the two of us at the beach, holding hands as the sun set. But my heart sank a step lower in my chest each time I reread it. I wished to walk through the forest she described, to see the waves at the beach five minutes from her new house. I wished to be back at the park behind her apartment, watching dogs play with their owners as we chatted about whatever was of import to third graders and played games I have long forgotten.

But eventually, our correspondence petered out. I received a letter from Jessica too, but I never responded, for reasons I don't really know. Maybe because I was too worried about saying the wrong thing, and it was easier to say nothing at all. Her letter sat on my dresser and receded from my consciousness a tiny bit each day, until weeks had passed and it was swallowed up by the animate clutter of my bedroom. When I uncovered it again, the guilt of a neglected friendship sat heavy in my gut. As a fourth grader unwilling to face difficult emotions, I buried the letter in my closet, choosing to forget.

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I had never expected to throw a party for my 16th birthday. I had not the year prior, nor the year before that. As much as I enjoyed spending time with my friends, the thought of being responsible for creating and overseeing a social event was stressful enough to put me off the idea without a second thought. As I looked ahead to the day, I pictured spending time with a friend or two and then eating dinner and opening gifts with my family. I did not expect a global pandemic, certainly not one that would impact me. I did not expect my daily life to be so unpredictable for months and months on end. But certain things remained constant throughout all of this.

The morning of my birthday, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was met by one of my closest friends, a smile visible even through her mask. We chatted happily, she from the walkway and me from the doorstep. She left me with a pink box covered in sparkles and ribbons, bringing a sense of festivity to what felt like every other day in shelter-in-place. I pulled out a mauve envelope from inside, my name written on it with a variety of pens and markers. As I read the card, a small smile spread across my face. Kind words and well wishes can feel awkward to give and to receive, and for an instant I became reflexively shy. But her handwritten words, framed by washi tape and patterned paper scraps, inspired a warm contentment in my heart. I read it one more time before reaching into my pocket to grab my phone, texting her a glowing thank you and asking when I could see her again.