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Will You Remember Me? MAG
I still remember the day. It was the beginning of freshman year, almost three years ago. The first day of Latin class. I had attended a different junior high than most of the kids so I didn’t know many people. I remember looking around at all the faces, wondering which ones would be my friends.
I dropped out of the class the next day because I was told my schedule was too demanding. Around a year and a half later, she told me, “I couldn’t understand why you were smiling so much. Every time I turned to look at you, you smiled. I figured you were trying to make friends or something.”
Now, it’s a year and a half after that day in English class when she crossed the room and came to sit next to Sara and me. Recently she told me that the first time we got together was when I saw her in Mr. Wells’ class and I told her to call me over vacation. It’s funny how friendships start. In Latin class she was just another stranger, a part of the crowd. We smiled at each other, never knowing that a year later.... In English class she was just another stranger with a name. And then, somewhere in the middle of the year, somehow, she crossed the room and sat next to me. Since then, we have always sat together. Now, she’s one of my few best friends.
I really love spending time with Liz. She lets things flow by her, lapping past and then she snatches little bits and they touch her, softly.
Now, I can look into her sparkling blue eyes, those coral-like eyes.... They’ve got white speckles in them and a little ring of yellow surrounds the pupil.... I can look into her eyes and know what lies beyond them. She’s no longer a stranger. How does one break the barrier? When did we reach the point where we could open up, could cry to each other, could tell each other how important the other is?
...like throwing little pieces of bread into a pond...throwing little pieces of me into her...she accepts or doesn’t, but she doesn’t judge and neither do I...we just share...
My memories of us together will be light, silent memories. I’ll remember the two of us walking through the night, bumping against each other and sharing ourselves until our words jumbled, intertwined. I’ll remember us twirling in the mud, barefoot...flying through the air on the swings...
I get engulfed in life. I let it touch me, I let it hurt me, I cry for it. She sort of lets it be.
I’ll remember our little treks into town; we never seem to be going anywhere but we always manage to have fun. I’ll remember First Night: the flying pink ribbons, the windowsill we sat on, the two little boys..the two drunk guys...
She’s very sensitive and sort of picks up on things here and there, poking and lightly pulling like a child pulls a loose string out of your coat.
I’ll remember the time I sat in her room, waiting for her math lesson to be over. She gave me all her diaries and her poetry, leaving me to read them. I remember the telephone conversation we had when I came back from my ten-day stay in Israel, during the Gulf War. She told me that she had cried and couldn’t study because she was constantly worried about me. She had run home in the middle of school because someone had told her that a strange, black thing was heading towards Israel and she had to find out if this was true. I laughed hysterically during the whole conversation. I felt so loved, someone had worried so much just for me. It felt wonderful and I loved her all the more for being able to tell me how much she needed me, how much I meant to her.
Next year I’ll be going to Israel to study. She’ll probably take it the hardest of all my friends. I remember the tennis courts, Liz and I sprawled on the pavement in the sun. She asked me, “Will you remember me?” I laughed, the question was so sensitive, so innocent and sweet, the answer so obvious. Or the time on the phone when she said, “Sometimes I wonder what I give to you.”
Liz sort of flows. She taught me to take life more lightly. To protect myself from its sting. To let the little ugly things just flow by into the past.
When I think of next year, I already miss her. It’s true – I can’t wait to leave, to move on. But as I move on, make new friends, maybe even get my first boyfriend – I’ll never forget that she’s still there, waiting for me, eager to pop back into my life. And I love her for this, for her honesty, for the warmth I see in her eyes. I can’t wait to introduce her to my friends in Israel – to share with her everything that makes me happy.
Editor’s note: The italics represent entries from the author’s personal diary.