Quidproquo

A dearly departed friend of mine used to play a game with me that I now call Quid Pro Quo. I really miss it. In this game we would each take turns asking about/ sharing about obscure and mundane facts about each other. Everything from the basics of favorite colors, to favorite poets, to his fear of dying in crocs. He told me he loved this game. I did too. We both found it comforting in its simplicity.
I crave knowing these things about people. To feel the connection of simply being human.
I want to know how people take their coffee, what makes them smile when they have a hard day, what position they fall asleep in. I want to know their favorite scents, their first memory, their fears and their dreams. I want to know what makes them feel connected. What makes them feel human.
I think we get so caught up in social standards, images, needing to appear talented, charismatic, and defined by our successes. I do not discredit these things, but I wish we sought more of the extraordinary in the ordinary of peoples lives. I wish we traded favorite colors more. Quid pro quo- an exchange of favors. In this space… the favor of being enough by just being human.
My friend was a poet, a talented musician, a charismatic and beautiful boy. But he was also black coffee with a splash of milk, the color purple, a crisp autumn day, a dancer in snow storms with ice stuck to his beard. He was black ink on paper, the scent of his fathers garage rags, and a companion to cats. In our game of Quid Pro Quo, he was enough. I was enough. We were stardust and oxygen and that was enough.