In ways he was right. And when I called him to let him that I wouldn’t be around, I could almost see him with his half laugh and half smile. Because he wasn’t surprised…
The night before the same friend had said, “I know you.” And it’s true. Because we have history.
23 years of history. And I like history.
Because I still remember the first time walking to his house with my sister. It was a sunny day. And I wish I could remember the season. For some reason it seems important now. But it was the day that our sisters decided to introduce us. And a walk that I have made a thousand times since. And that I still make. And that I still look forward to.
It was a beginning that I remember. And that I still find myself thinking about. Because I don’t have a lot of beginnings like it.
In ways he was wrong. And when I called him to let him that I wouldn’t be around, I wonder if he could see my half laugh and my half smile. Because I was surprised…
The night before I responded silently in anger, “You knew me.” And it too is true. Because we have history.
23 years of history. And I hate history.
We met in his backyard. (Well, technically his sideyard.) A place that I might describe as my favorite place in Vacaville. A place later filled with stink potions made of berries and leaves and various things left to rot and ferment. A place with a fig tree and a kumquat tree. And we didn’t hang out a stoop, but the side of a fence. Like owls. (Perhaps our elementary school was fitting then?) It was a place filled with ideas and dreams.
But many of the ideas and dreams never came true. Nor would I have wanted them to. Some faded away and some became new dreams. And some we took with us when we had new and separate beginnings. But we are the same people. And different too. History makes us predictable. But it traps us. And our reasons change even if we are the same people and the outcomes are the same. And it’s not his fault. And it’s not mine. Because history goes on without us.