The friendship bracelets you gave in third grade,
the makeup you stole from your mother before sneaking out past midnight.

Scrunchies you wore in middle school and the pigtails that you sometimes still do.

Girls you hung out with all the time in seventh grade, but don’t anymore.
Girls you talk about boys with.

Your sister, who introduced you to lip gloss;
your mother, whom you taught how to french braid.

Girls you go to the powder room with,
girls who poured soda down your shirt at that party.

The ones you spent your afternoon hockey practice with, the ones you got your hair dyed with.

The ones you’ll remember when you look back at the polaroids,
the ones you still call up at three in the morning.

The spirit of eating cookie dough at slumber parties, I guess.

The solidarity of sisterhood that can get us through almost everything.