It is ridiculous
that I am a professional friend.
I am told
I am skilled at my job.
Tasks include-
Memorizing your second
and third favorite colors
in case of emergency-
in case the blue rag is dirty
and only green will do,
in case the world is already too loud
and the wrong shade tips it over.
Repeating a movie title
with blockbuster-level enthusiasm
after a week that has wrung you out-
“Madagascar 3! Europe’s Most Wanted!”
For the fourth time.
And adoring it.
Rooting through my closet
to find something pink for UNO night-
9 a.m. sharp-
because theme matters,
and showing up matters,
and losing in pink
is better than winning alone.
Okay.
That one isn’t exactly
in the job description-
more like avoiding
social suicide.
I am told
I am skilled at my job.
Workflow includes-
Sitting on the bench with B
at 8:45 a.m.,
the air still sharp,
as he cries about something
he’s held in for days,
thinking it’s small.
Listening like it isn’t.
High-fiving B
when the napkin arcs
in a perfect paper parabola
into the trash can-
both of us celebrating
like confetti should fall from the ceiling.
Owing B five dollars
because I underestimate
how serious he is about bets.
Going bowling.
Losing terribly.
Cheering anyway.
Learning the difference
between overstimulated
and overwhelmed.
Between quiet
and shut down.
Between “I’m fine”
and “It’s fine.”
That is barely scratching the surface
of how deeply
I get to know B.
I am told
I am skilled at my job.
I don’t care much
for the accolades-
not from coworkers
who call it “meaningful work,”
not from friends
who say, “I could never do that,”
not even from family
who are proud in the way
people are proud of something
they don’t fully understand.
It isn’t hard
to be good at loving someone
with your entire heart
when loving them
is the point.
Not everyone will understand that.
The praise that keeps me going
doesn’t arrive in performance reviews.
It arrives folded in crayon-
in my first, second,
and third favorite colors.
A get-well card
after one day away-
as if my absence left
an outline.
A last-minute drop-in to my classroom
just to wave,
just to make sure
I am still there.
And I know he says it to everyone.
I know that.
But still-
“You are my heart.”
He presses each word out carefully,
like something fragile.
It never loses its weight.
For that,
I am the richest
and the poorest
human alive.
Rich in trust.
Rich in inside jokes.
Rich in the way someone looks for me
in every room.
Poor in the way the world counts.
Poor in the way budgets are written.
Poor in the way compassion
is applauded
but not funded.
So pay direct support professionals more.
We are not just caregivers.
We are historians of favorite colors.
Witnesses to 8:45 a.m. tears.
Champions of napkin shots.
Keepers of five-dollar debts.
Professional friends.
We pour every drop of our souls
into work that asks for everything
and pays in gratitude.
And gratitude is beautiful-
but it does not cover rent.
We are needed.
And friendship-
real, relentless, whole-hearted friendship-
is not ridiculous.
It is essential.
