I was thinking, after getting in touch with someone I hadn't heard from in a VERY long time through Friendster (that piece of shit, I only checked in to see who else I should add at My Space--lo and behold, a message from September that Friendster predictably never told me about), of some things I miss about high school. I miss rainy days in class, watching movies to "supplement" reading, the guidance of a teacher who cared about me, lunch periods that were full of gossip, and...notes.

I really miss notes. It's amazing I learned anything at all, considering the amount of time I spent writing notes in High School.

I miss, two or three times a day, receiving a tiny, meticulously folded page full of someone's deepsest fears and longings, confessions, aspirations. Or just how much they hated History. My notes often had drawings to correspond. Once, when I was talking about how much I despised Mr. Hodges (Algebra II), I depicted him reclining in a beach chair and having an umbrella drink, totally unaware that he was about to be crushed by a cruise ship that was falling out of the sky. The accuracy with which I captured his mustache was impressive.

I miss writing notes to someone, making them as elaborate and unique as possible. I could fold my notes into an origami square, heart, chick, triangle, pyramid, and frog. I know, the chick was random. But it looked really cool. I sometimes wrote with multi-colored pens on pastel paper. I gave very good note, if I do say so myself.

And now, there is no note. Maybe some love letters and a card when things begin. But never a quick stop in a hall somewhere to complete an exchange, then furtively unfolding and enjoying your take during a lecture.

I guess some things have a place in life where they stay. Notes don't come my way very often anymore. You can text message or email any of those thoughts now. But you know, I kept all my old notes, and I have them in a box. I can touch them, and hear them crinkle when I open them. I can enjoy folding them back into their intricate pattern. I can know that this piece of paper, this bit of ink, came from a friend in the past, and it's like having them with me again. I remember them, all fifteen and full of words, boredom, ideas, desperation, dreams. I remember you that way, no matter what you become. This note proves you were there, and you said, you swore, that the only thing you needed to be happy or would ever ask for, was to borrow your mother's car so you could kiss me in the back seat.