I was standing in the airport when you smiled at me.

I had on an ugly straw hat, jeans, an oversized t-shirt. I felt smushed and crumpled after my five-hour flight.

And I hated standing there next to my overweight, gregarious, altogether embarrassing mother, the one who had forced the hat on my head in the first place so she wouldn't have to carry it.

I felt awkward, and tired, as other travelers left through the doors next to us scowling, or smiling at each other, or giving my out-of-place hat funny looks.

And my arms hurt from the heavy suitcases I held in both hands.
I can't remember why I waited there so long. Anyway, I hated it. I even hated myself. I felt like I could have taught Dork 101 at the college level.

Then you came by. You didn't look away, or act secretly, unkindly amused at my expense.

You just looked straight at me and smiled a real smile. Not a smile that meant you laughed at me, or a polite smile aimed above my head. A real, friendly smile.

And suddenly I didn't care about my dorkyness, my crumpled clothes, my mother. I smiled back at you.

And in that moment, we were friends.

Sometimes friendship is as simple (or as complicated) as that.

This is a letter I could never send because I don't know who you are, or where you left to that day in Phoenix.


But thank you.