coldplay concert ticket memento guitar pick natasha krell — The guitar pick I keep in my wallet, paper butterflies, and a concert ticket

I believe we can still be in conversation with and linked to our loved ones after they’ve left this earth. They communicate with us through signs, symbols, dream visitations, and the physical possessions they leave us. I keep James’s guitar pick in my wallet. Holding the triangular plastic memento in between my thumb and index finger makes me feel close to my best friend even though he’s gone.

Our friendship started on a social media site late one night in the early aughts. He’d posted a video of him playing a song in his bedroom that caught my attention. He fumbled with the opening chords, stopping and restarting a few times to get it right. James sang softly as if his parents were in the room next door sleeping, which they probably were. His voice and the chords made me stop whatever else I was mindlessly doing online. I commented asking for the name of the song. His response came swiftly. “My Guardian Angel by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.”

Soon we discovered we lived just a mile apart in our leafy Nashville suburb. I walked over to his house where we’d listen to music for hours, him showing me bands I’d never heard of. He’d walk me back, making sure I got home safely.

When my parents decided to move our family overseas in 2009 as the housing bubble was bursting and my father’s work in residential development dried up, the one who was hit hardest was James. Looking back at the letters he wrote me, it’s clear he was struggling. I just didn’t see it at the time.

As a parting gift, he’d bought us general admission tickets to see Coldplay. They were on their Viva la Vida tour, and I knew just about every lyric on their new record. They were a band I’d grown up listening to as my dad often had their songs playing on our family’s stereo when we were doing Sunday chores or just lounging around the house.

Both the paper butterflies that fell from the arena’s ceiling and the tears that fell from my eyes during “Yellow” surprised me. Tears continued falling as the concert ended, not wanting our time together to stop. Home was a feeling I felt wrapped in while in his arms. I gathered up the colorful paper butterflies now on the floor and carefully put them in my pocket, keeping them for years to come. I didn’t want to leave James, my best friend, whose love I felt so deeply but didn’t have the words to express.

As best friends in early high school, I hardly said “I love you” out loud, or at least I don’t remember saying it. James wore his heart on his sleeve and more aptly expressed his emotions whenever he had the chance. He left me with carefully curated CDs and letters explaining why each song was included. He wrote, “You’re my best friend, and I will love you always and forever.” He also left me with his guitar pick. A red Peavy, 0.73 mm. James gave it to me when I visited him during a Thanksgiving break in college. My own family was still abroad and James’s family welcomed me into their home.

When I’m holding the guitar pick or listening to his playlists, I feel his presence along my back. His angel wings caress the sides of my face. Even if he no longer graces the earth with his physical presence, I feel deeply connected to him.

He once told me that he still thinks of me every day. I remember in the moment—and shortly after he passed six years after that fateful Thanksgiving—feeling guilty that thoughts of him didn’t take up equal mental bandwidth. But now that he’s gone, I see him everywhere. Whether it’s in the kindness of others, the warmth of a full bear hug, or the signs and symbols I get from him. His guitar pick lives in my wallet, and I now think of him every day when I get a peek at it. It doesn’t take much for me to feel his love and presence from the beyond.

Our friendship started with a song about a guardian angel. I wouldn’t understand the full meaning of this until he was no longer here.

Object-ives #56: My Guardian Angel’s Guitar…