Remembering Jamie

Jamie was my best friend. Ever since seventh grade, we were like the brothers neither of us had. We liked the same music. The same movies. The same girl. Okay, that created a bit of friction, until we found out that she didn't like either of us.

During our junior year in high school, we talked about applying to the same colleges, but my parents convinced me that Jamie and I might be better off building new friendships. We'd still have the old one, of course, but our worlds would be more complete if we added a few new connections.

So last fall, we went off to colleges two-hundred miles apart. And when met up after Freshman year, our conversations made it clear that our new circles might not mesh quite as tightly as our individual friendship had. But we agreed that it was good to broaden our horizons.

Then, three days ago, all my pleasant memories of our friendship were obliterated by the sight of tire tracks running across the grass in somebody's front lawn.

Jamie loved that old car. It was kind of a junker, but he treated it as though it had just come out of the showroom. He drove it everywhere, and he was always asking people if they needed a ride, just for a chance to drive somewhere.

But last week, the laws of physics demonstrated that a car is no match for a sixty-foot oak. And it's obvious from the ruts in the grass that Jamie drove straight into the tree. No skid marks. No signs that he attempted to swerve to the side.

Some of my other friends have been wondering whether what Jamie did was intentional. But I'm not sure I want to know,