Care Package

Becca sent me a care package the other day. Just a box with my name on it, but opening it felt like she’d emptied her brain trying to figure out what would actually make me happy.

Mozart balls—the real kind, the ones I haven’t had since I was a kid. Simpsons figures because she knows I have that weird attachment to the show. A container of SpongeBob semolina pudding, which is either the sweetest or most ridiculous thing depending on how you look at it. Everything chosen. No filler.

That’s what gets me about Becca. She remembers the stupid specific stuff you mention once. The foods you liked growing up. The characters you inexplicably care about. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it. The package just shows up and there’s a note saying a good friend is always there for you no matter the distance, and you know she means it because she went to the trouble.

It’s the kind of thing that stops you. You’re unpacking semolina pudding in a SpongeBob container and you realize someone on the other side of the world was thinking about you hard enough to wrap it up and ship it. Most people don’t do that.

I should probably call her.