I remember the day,
you gave me a bracelet.
Leather, and brown.
Beautifully woven and thick,
Writing on the front that read
“Lokana”, your name in Hawaiian.

But the clasp was broken,
Completely unwearable.
I would have to tie it with string.

Most would have thrown it away.
Yet,
You gave it to me as a gift.
And you looked at me
With such extreme importance in your eyes,
Your voice stern as you said
“Don't lose this.”

It was then that I realized
What it must have meant to you.
A sharp twinge of fear caught me
As I promised I wouldn’t,
Knowing how much you were asking of me.

I have such a forgetful mind, you see.
I drop brand new phones on concrete,
Leave 10 page essays at home,
Forget the way to my best friend's house
After hundreds of times being there.

I forget chunks of my life.
Years of my childhood,
Gone.
Precious items,
Missing.

Yet you wished me, of all people,
To keep track of something so small
And easy to lose.
And I, of all people, agreed to do so
Because I knew what it must have meant to you,
And now it means that to me too.