Maine.

Dear “Maine,”

The reminiscence of my childhood summers spent at my great grandmother’s house were triggered by the warm scent of your home.

Popcorn.

Dear “Popcorn,”

Your pretty ocean eyes and sweet smile. “Samples!” you called out as you handed me the most melting sweetness of a kettle.

Best sample of my life.

Everyone belongs.

Dear “Everyone Belongs,

You’re absolutely right. On a simple black crew neck, stamped in bold white Calibri like font – Yet, your message is soul clenching.

Lonely Man.

Dear “Lonely Man,”

Those sorrowful windows, caught mine. After a few loops around, your windows were no longer gloomy, as you were approached by a rainbow Rasta beauty.

Picture Perfect Mom.

Dear “Picture Perfect Mom,”

“No, put your hands out!” you yelled in frustration, as you wanted to post your version of a ‘worthy’ photo on Facebook. Your gorgeous, inviting, blonde preteen turned into a “typical teenager.” She just wanted to show how happy she was about her lobster hand gloves.

She took the picture for you.

Carly.

Dear “Carly,”

Given with generosity and the teeniest plastic spoon, your chocolate cookie crunch lingers on the tip of my tongue with chills bubbling my brain. Because of you, I have officially left my love of vanilla and converted to chocolate.

Pig Bandana.

Dear “Pig Bandana,”

A vintage pig wrapped in the blanket of your muscle head, biting down into that turkey leg as if it would be the last thing you would ever eat. As you closed your eyes with every bite, your girlfriend watched in amazement, and so did I.

Swine.

Dear “Swine,”

The bravest of them all. Watching you fall over and nearly crushing one of your babies, stopped my entire existence. In a wall-less pen, surrounded by hundreds of random faces. You did what any mother would do, you bared yourself for the world to see, so all five of your beautiful baby piggies could eat.

Newport Man.

“Dear Newport Man,”

After making homemade one-pound meatballs all day, you deserve a smoke break. Your silver beard and compassionate spirit reminded me of a person I used to know, as you offered me your last Newport. I declined, but I will never forget those Rocky Balboa hands and that Italian heart.

Zipper.

Dear “Zipper,”

Thank you gnarly ride, for making my brain feel like a batting cage with all your twists and flips and activating the side effects of my lactose intolerance. It was worth it.