Full poem here.

There was that talk we had before you left one weekend, long and honest, secrets 

steadily rising from hot bowls of clear soup, fogging up glasses that will always be 

half-full. There was that smile you gave me when you walked me to my door one

evening, our pockets emptied of daylight and hours, and there is that smile you 

always give me when I walk into a crowded room; I am still trying to figure out the

difference between the two. There were tired days, and quiet. There were growing 

pains, things that sting but do not leave scars. There were those first flickers of 

recognition, the winking eyes of oncoming vehicles. There was something we found 

and decided to keep, and there is a slew of somethings further ahead, but there is

the middle and we have that; there is safe, solid ground to stand on. There is enough,

and often there is so much, and there is nothing that should ever make me forget.

and what it was you meant to search for in the first place; did you want an update
on KimYe, or did you want to check if poormichelle.com was still up and running?
There must be a word, most probably French, for this—when you are confused and
lost times two, because you need to find an answer but first you need to find the
question that you need to find an answer to, and really, who has time for that? not

you, certainly, with your twenty million errands and all the Instagram photos you
have to like (what will become of humanity if that little heart remains a gloomy 
gray?), not with all the crunches you have to do (Britney Spears supposedly did
500-1000 a day, but some reports say she once went up to 3000; don't even try,
you will keel over and die), not with all the emojis you can attach to every cutesy
inappropriate text you send your boss. Not you, nope, never, just... no. You keep

forgetting why you're on Google, and what it was you meant to search for in the
first place. You also keep forgetting: to take out the trash, the contents of your
refrigerator, your friends' birthdays, whether or not you locked the door, the 
thank-you note you swore you would write six months ago, that to a dragonfly
you are a giant without wings and someone has to tell it that you are both just
infinitesimal specks in space, everything you own that is damaged and has to be 
discarded or repaired, that now is now and nothing else (how can you possibly
forget something as small and simple as this), how important it is to breathe.

You told me I was fearless. I was coming home from an adventure, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. I was coming home to old friends and new things, and I wasn't sure if maybe what I wanted was new friends and old things. I thought I should have stayed longer, or should never have gone at all, but I wasn't sure. I thought I was in love—with people and places and a way of life. I thought I was, but I wasn't sure, and it frightened me.

But you told me I was fearless. You found out I had been traveling alone, and you found out how young I was. You observed the ease in which I settled into my seat, the way my fingers didn't tighten around the armrest as the plane took off. You held hands for most of the flight, and when dinner and breakfast arrived in plastic containers you shared bread and fruit and coffee, even if you didn't need to. One of you used to be a doctor. You were both retired, and you looked like you'd earned the right to rest. You didn't speak much.

To be sure, and to be strong, and to be kind to one another, and to work and work and work, and to stay, and to love through it all with a certainty that is quiet and tender, smoothing out the wrinkles of sadness and anger with soft, soothing hands: I hope someone tells you, at least once, that this is what being fearless really is.

I never got your names, never gave you mine. You are just another old married couple on a plane, and on harsh dry soil you are just a man and a woman living out your last good years the best way you know how; we will never meet again and someday your story will end. Someday, your story will end. But every time I tell this story, soft and clear like the plane's wheels on the safest and gentlest of landings, you will always be the fearless ones.

Petals from that first bouquet, pressed firmly against the pages of an old journal you 
are no longer sad enough to write in; this year you finally understand how people can 
wear their hearts on their sleeves. The accompanying letter—you have to believe that 
these promises are plans. Photos of children who have stopped chasing butterflies
and started chasing dreams, who bruise more than elbows and knees, parts of their
bodies kisses and candy can no longer cure. Anything that makes you proud: a stellar
report card, a note from your teacher, that one time you looked down and realized
you have grown up exactly the way you wished you would. Your best friend's number. 
A detailed description of what you will do when you win the lottery, or when you turn
30, or when your daughter asks, after a bad day at the playground, how many other
boys will make her cry. Grace for when things are going your way, and grace for when
things aren't. Grace for whenever you need it the most. Hope. Blankets for warmth,
keep them in a dry place because today the sun is dancing and you are free to shed all
those layers, harsh and heavy. Petals from that first bouquet, your springtime is here.