3 years old—
Our parents tried to make us get along
You, being defiant of everything,
And me, who was shy and would rather follow rules
You know what?
It worked.
7 years old—
We’re at some neighbor’s party together
Your brother left you alone
I scarcely remembered you;
You’d never forgotten me.
I tried to push you in a hot tub.
You laughed.
10 years old—
At the same school together now.
You’re in my class, of course.
We don’t get along well at first.
It takes a while to warm up to each other,
But soon we’re sharing music in band
And laughing over the dumbest things.
11 years old—
We’re still in the same class.
Teasing each other and laughing.
Arguing over who gets first clarinet.
In the end, it’s always me.
You were better at math, I was better at music.
12 years old—
Middle school now.
We spend most of our time arguing and teasing each other.
I know I could always come to you, though, if I needed help
You knew that, too.
I broke my arm during band.
You made me go up to the office,
And made sure I didn’t make things any worse.
Thank you, thank you so much.
13 years old—
We poked fun at each other still.
A bit less now, but we were still close.
You helped me get my grade up in geometry.
You died last month.
It hurts so much.
People asked me what the last thing I said to you was.
I think it was “See you on Monday!”
Monday never came.