There are things that can only be well developed not by having to answer an existing question, but by having an answer that can be triggered by an existing question. For example, "What is the best birthday present you have ever received?" I mean, duh, how do I even remember? And why is that I should share it with you? Frankly, these topics printed on high school English test papers piss me off.
But then, did I say I don't want to write about it? Well I do now, because I remembered the answer. No, I found it by remembering a night.
It's unfair to say that any present at all is better than another. It's just inaccurate. My friends held a secret night party for me outside my dorm on my 19th birthday, but how can anyone find a set of speakers from my parents inferior? A group of children on the west coast of Taiwan gave me one of the most unforgettable week following my 18th birthday, and I don't find a concoction of pencils, random sweets and irrelevant items from my best friend any less enjoyable. A boy kept a diary for a year, and handed them to me on my 20th birthday; how can it be exceeded? And of course, who can forget having bestowed life upon oneself on the zero-th birthday? And yet who remembers?
Therefore I shall not say this present I'm describing particularly outstanding or overpowering, but it was impressive. Though it's not even a birthday present. It's a valentine's present. But what makes the difference? It's just a good present that happened to overwhelm me.
I received a thin piece of notebook -- the paper-made and printed pad instead of a branded electronical multi-functional device -- on a valentines' day when I was 15 years old. Or so I recalled. I opened it up and found a elaborately crayoned book mark with warnings that declared it was not to be used as a book mark lest I should find it amusing coloring up my books. The cannot-be-used-as-a-book-mark book mark had "I love you" written all over it, in eight different languages. Or so I recalled. How refreshing! And, coloring... Apart from that wild card, the next page covered a letter she wrote for me. It was about how earthly fortunate it was to have known me and other sweet mentionings that made me laugh. I gladly finished it, and put it aside in satisfaction.
Some days passed. I can't really tell if a whole month had gone by, or it was only three days later. It rained, so I wrote words about rains into that notebook. It was dark at night when insomnia visited and I wrote words about the noise of the fan into that notebook. It was almost spring and winds were blowing thoughtfully, so I wrote words about winter into that notebook. Days went by and I kept filling up the blank pages with sporadic metaphors. And one night, I was reading a novel on the highest room of the house when I thought something regarding lost kites should have been written down, so I grabbed the notebook and flipped through the pages. Words. Colorful words. Not mine, but hers. There was another letter on the very last page of the notebook starting with "Well here I am taking another page from this thin enough thing..."
I don't remember one word about that letter other than that. Perhaps I never really got to read it mindfully. And I don't even know why I couldn't have done that.
She is my loveliest friend in life. At least I get to remember this, and that the notebook was the most heart-reaching present I have received in my life. I love you too.
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