You were my friend.
You were my friend years ago, but I hadn't talked to you in ages and I was afraid to talk to you now.
I would steal glances though--to make sure that that high school kid was really the same neighbor boy that I had played Mortal Combat with throughout much of my childhood.
You had grown quite a lot, and gained weight too, although you were always a bit rotund, from what I remembered.
Your older self seemed to be a sort of trouble maker, and I admit that I was put off by some of your behavior. You hung out with the other kids in our class who often came across as rude, and who, in my mind, had questionable morals and likely did questionable things.
But I still wanted to talk to you.
I wanted to talk but I was a "good kid," and I was fearful of how you might respond to my attempt at reaching out. I was afraid of being rejected by someone who once had been so close to me.
I tried to think of what I might say.
Again and again, opportunities would arise but I just couldn't figure out a decent way to start a conversation. "Hey we used to be neighbors and best friends and hang out everyday lets catch up" might have worked, but to my hyper-conscious high school self, that just didn't come across as a natural way to start a conversation.
I specifically remember one day--
One day you stood in the entryway to the classroom while talking to one of your friends. You were blocking the way through, and that was my chance. I could have said anything at that moment, and it would have re-initiated some sort of contact, even a simple "excuse me" with a glance and a smile would have done well enough.
But I didn't.
Instead I forced my way past, you obligingly stepped aside, and I rolled my eyes. I rolled them like some snooty, stuck-up drama queen who can't stand it when people improperly stand in doorways. And I instantly disliked myself for doing so. I felt foolish and snobbish and cowardly.
And underneath the i'm-better-than-you facade that I so suddenly constructed was my insecure self that desperately just wanted to say hi.
I missed having you as my neighbor. I missed when we would eat three servings of taco salad and drink Sunny D, much to my mother's chagrin, and when we would play with your old black (now gray) lab named Yogi.
I missed being your friend.
But these were words that I could not get myself to say, despite the chances that I had to say them, and I became resigned to the fact that we had both simply changed too much. I was a good student and you had grown tired of the whole operation, although you acquired a fantastic skill with your drum set, which I thought was pretty cool.
And then you died.
You had a nice funeral service--despite it being kind of preachy--or so I heard. I didn't go because my parents had forgotten to tell me the date and then forgot the date themselves.
I heard about your service the next Monday in pottery class and was brought to tears when I realized I had missed it.
I had missed the memorial service for your life.
A life that I had grown up with and cared about and respected, a life which had so suddenly vanished--
I had avoided talking to you for so long,
and I wasn't even there to pay my last respects.
You were my friend.
You were my friend and part of me--
Part of me thinks that on that morning when you stood in the doorway--
if I had just said something. If I had extended my friendship out to you once more than perhaps...
Perhaps things could have ended up differently.
And as I walked on graduation day, maybe your name could have been read aloud, and you would have crossed the stage also.
Rather than having your name read in memorial.
It's been almost five years, and I still think about you, and tears still form in my eyes. I don't know if it's because I'm over-emotional or over-dramatic or what.
But I think of you and I remember this boy from my childhood. A boy who sometimes threw rocks and said inappropriate things, but who also had an infectious laugh and a good heart.
A boy who was not very unlike myself.
