At six, we played.
The hours would pass us by.
We’re all giggles and laughter,
Until my mother pulls me away.
I wave goodbye, toothy grin on my face.
That one word never meant much,
Because I knew I would see you the next day.

At ten, we were double digits.
You didn’t think it was ‘cool’
To be friends with a girl.
I thought it was ‘gross’
To be friends with a boy.
We only exchanged words
When our parents made us.
Goodbyes were easy this time.

At sixteen, we were exploring.
I still didn’t know what a kiss was like.
You said you knew, but didn’t care.
I poked and prodded,
Curiosity overflowing.
You became annoyed.
So you stopped me with a kiss.
Goodbyes became awkward
But much appreciated.

At twenty-two, we were mature.
At least, we thought we were.
We became close again, very close.
I kissed you without any hesitation.
You returned it.
Standing there in the parking lot,
Lips pressed together, parting only for air.
Goodbyes had to force us apart.

At twenty eight, we were separate,
Our own people with our own lives.
That didn’t bother me.
It stopped doing so when I found someone new.
And as did you.
Twenty-eight and married, with your first on the
Way with someone who isn’t me.
Congratulations.

At thirty-four, it was only me.
You passed away from a car accident.
I make my last trip to your grave.
As I lay the flowers on your tombstone,
I trace your name, my hand lingering
On your portrait, the last one taken of you.
I stand up, bidding my final goodbyes.
And this time,
I meant it.