I met you when I was four. To the ire of the people who worked at the daycare, I just wouldnât stop talking during nap time. They barricaded me into the corner with bookshelves to stop me from talking to the other kids. You put your bed roll next to the bookshelves and talked to me.
When we were six, we hid behind my parents TV so you wouldnât have to go home and tried to make Barbie furniture out of tape. My mom was so mad. She had to unroll every single one to make sure that we hadnât wrapped anything in them. We wasted so much tape.
When we were seven, we decided to be twins for twin day at school. Except we didnât quite match properly, so we didnât get to go up during the assembly. I cried and our teacher pulled us out into the hall. You decided that we were fraternal twins and gave me a hug.
When we were eight, I made Christmas ornaments for the four of us. We had made paper at school and it was patchy and rough, but it was something I prized. So, I cut it up and made four ornaments. They said: best, friends, for, and ever. I split the last word to make it work.
When we were nine, the two of you moved away. At the time that hurt more than I could ever explain. I missed you like crazy, but we had sleepovers at your house and spent as much time as we could. I got quieter and quieter. That was when I started going to therapy.
When we were twelve, I went to a halloween dance with you at your new school. You kept pulling on my fairy wings and smiling at me. We went outside. One of the other kids gave us a cigarette. The first drag hit the back of my throat hard, but you just laughed. It hurt all night.
When we were fifteen, you switched to the same high school as one of our other friends. I didnât call you. I didnât ask. I was so busy trying not to feel anything. Drinking and smoking and other shit. I figured that weâd catch up at some point. I didnât even try to call you.
When we were nineteen, I ran into you at the bus stop, but I was on my way to work. We talked a bit. You were smoking and I was unsuccessfully trying to quit. You offered me a cigarette and I said I was running late. I brushed you off with the words ânext timeâ.
When we were twenty-three, I finally kicked the alcohol and other shit. I switched to vaping instead of smoking because one of my friends was pregnant. I wish I could say I thought about you, that we kept in touch, that there had been a next time. There wasnât.
When I was twenty-six, someone I knew posted on Facebook saying that their friend had passed away. It was your name at the end of the post. I felt like someone was ripping my lungs out. Something bitter and empty clawed itâs way into my chest, itâs never quite left.
When you were twenty-six, you died. I read later that you had overdosed. You died alone. I kept getting stuck on the thought that I should have been there. If I couldnât have stopped it, I should have at least been there to hold your hand as you went. I found out from Facebook.
I think about you a lot now. I think about the word forever just as often. I think about tape furniture, how you kept pulling on my fairy wings, that first cigarette, and I think about next times that will never happen. I wonder if you felt as alone as I did, if you did the shit I did.
When I was twenty-seven, I learned how to administer a naloxone kit. I couldnât help you and I couldnât hold your hand, but maybe I can do that for someone else. Even if I canât do anything, I can call 911 and wait with them. I can hold their hand so they donât die alone.
Iâm almost twenty-eight now, two years older than youâll ever be. I miss you like crazy and it tastes like that first cigarette. I donât think Iâll ever quite get past this, but I donât think anyone ever does. You live in my chest. Twenty-two years carved into me. A brutal lesson on next times.
And, I would give up so much to go back and have that cigarette with you, to hear you laugh.
