Today’s post was inspired by a prompt to explore friendship by Write on Edge.
You were a rock star soccer player. At ten and eleven and twelve years old, you were tough, smart and funny.
We had this coach who was also tough, smart and funny. He was full of compassion and encouragement as we practiced and played. We ran a lot. We had nicknames. We didn’t always win.
Off the field, we used to record ourselves talking and singing and being super silly and then pass back the cassette tapes back and forth, to listen to when we weren’t together. We laughed like crazy.
I remember playing soccer with big pillows in your bedroom in lieu of a real ball that wasn’t allowed indoors.
Do you remember?
You were the oldest of three, and so was I.
You loved music. I cringe when I admit that anytime I hear George Michael, I still think of you (isn’t that weird?).
We got a little older. You got tougher.
You stopped being so silly. I wondered why.
Our friendship was fading.
Your mom came over to talk to my mom the day you ran away. They asked me where you had gone.
I wondered if you were pregnant (you weren’t).
You came back.
Due to circumstances beyond our control, our friendship lost its luster.
We went to different high schools, anyway. Played on different teams.
Often I’m torn between what was and what could be.
I missed you for a long time.