By Ike Kelman
My friend of 12 years. My friend since I was 5. Gone from kindergarten to present. Consistent throughout. Respect runs mutually. We read each other's minds without thought. We laugh, we mourn, we argue. I consider him to be my best friend, a title earned by time and experience. A title which is lived up to day by day. We don’t have a given need to be with each other everyday or every experience but when the opportunity is presented we are. We understand each other's commitment.
Their name is known to my family as mine is to his.
As I enter his house I’m treated within a comfortable environment, a house not mine but a house of which I’ve lived in for nights before. A dog that knows my scent, a couch that knows my seat, a fridge that knows my cravings.
Our parents recall photos and stories of our past sending them mutually, bringing a wave of nostalgia. A good reminder of our complex stories. Usually to that experience on the monthly I’ll open my phone to a text message reading a name not officially beard but one I’ve made up. A photo is most common but to this time was a video.
A video taken by his sister of me getting ready to leave his house after one of our playdates. The year is not known but from the school uniform I wear, I reckon it’s second or third grade. My Mom talks to him, a normal greeting, a friendly talk. While words are traded about their day I get tossed around below as my friend wrestles me to the ground. The environment was all too familiar, the wall that stood to the left by the stares is now long gone. A thought not recalled in years. A tv that was mounted on the wall to the right where we used to play xbox is now gone.
I reminisce as the waves of nostalgia pass, looking onto the future with worry, as the end of highschool is at hand. Putting this present behind but never to be forgotten.