it is your birthday

We used to be friends. I don’t know much about you now. We drifted apart. Our schedules changed and you could no longer fit me into your life, not around your classes, not around your job, and not around your baby. I only remember the person you were, when we used to be close. She was a person who was loud, resilient, colourful, a person who hoarded things that gave them joy: shiny pebbles, pink pens, patterned socks.

You are older now, grown. You are more mature now, having changed while I stagnated, sinking into myself. You are quieter now, more subdued, and sometimes I can see the core of the person you used to be, shimmering beneath the surface.

The gift is in my hands. I hold it out to you, and you look into the bag, peek underneath the crumpled tissue paper. I watch your face change, squirming.

"They're socks," I say. "Socks with tacos on them."

You raise your eyebrows.