My Friendships

The earliest and fuzziest memories were with Trevor. He looked similar to me when I was a toddler. Most of what I remember is from pictures of him and I. There was one that hung in the hallway of my house; it was him and I sitting next to each other in his family's backyard. He’s wearing a navy baseball cap, gray hoodie, and red shorts. I’m wearing a blue and yellow striped rugby shirt and jeans. Trevor is holding a sippy cup in his hand and his lips look stained from juice he had been drinking. We both looked as confused as you’d expect from people too young to know how to present for a picture. The older memory that I reached was playing on the carpet of his bedroom; he had a street map rug that we would roll his Thomas the Train toys on. The only time I saw Trevor after that was when his family stopped by our house years later—a branch from the coral tree in the backyard had just fallen from a storm. It was a fun coincidence that we got to play around the fallen branch instead of the ground being clear. Something about that space being occupied made it more exciting to be around.
When I was a cub scout there was an annual popcorn selling season and the highest sellers would win special prizes. My mom and I would go door to door every day and sell popcorn to houses in neighborhoods. I remember seeing Cooper at the base of the door playing with a monster truck; our parents chatted for a bit and we became friends soon after. He lived two houses down from me around two corners so that our backyards shared the same fence. He also joined the same cub scout troop that I was in after we became friends. The best memories I have with Cooper are building forts with him and climbing trees. Before I was friends with him, I hadn’t made forts outside that were made from sticks and

random pieces of junk that could be built into something. Eventually, we stopped hanging out as often, mostly because I quit boy-scouts to go to my church’s youth group instead.
I was in Junior High when I first started going there. I used to stand around the TV where kids would play Halo and Super Smash Brothers, so I would feel less alone and have something passive to do. Caden was the first to initiate—just about all I remember from the conversation was that he liked a video game about jets, which is ironic because when we talk about that first interaction, he doesn't even remember playing anything like that. There’s too many good things to say about Caden. I once made a list of things I like about him, the last thing on it was, “I don’t think he’ll ever forget me.” That's why that conversation at youth group was the beginning of our friendship—because I felt seen. I appreciate that I can hold different aspects of childhood friendship and still change in how I spend time with them. As a kid, sitting in a car just to talk would have been boring, but that is now something that has brought some of the best conversations that I’ve had with friends, and its something that I cherish about Caden and I’s friendship. Writing letters was another thing that I wasn’t interested in, but now he and I like to send each other letters while were away at school. Last semester I was writing a letter in return to one that Caden sent me while he was in quarantine. I was writing about some things that had been on my mind; one of the sentences was, “I think one of the best things about the idea of heaven is being able to see your loved ones again.” In empty spaces along the page I made doodles; to the right of that sentence I drew the face of a boy with long hair and a warm smile.
Aspen was my first best friend. I was in kindergarten and first grade and it was hard for me to connect with most of the kids at school, but not with Aspen. We’d make up silly imaginary games and he would do voices that made me laugh. Him and I had the same humor so we would crack each other up; it was one of the greatest joys of my childhood. One time I was at his house and we were drawing and coloring mountains. I watched him make a zigzag line where the snow ended on top of the purple mountains and then fill in the top with white crayon. I thought it was such a cool way of capping the

mountain and I imitated it with my mountains. That’s what snow-capped mountains are for me now—one of those little things that you wouldn't expect to set off a deep memory, but are now a small part of you. His family moved to Palm Springs when I was in second grade and I didn’t see him again until I was eleven when my mom surprised me with a trip to go see him. Ever since then I had looked forward to seeing him again. My mom is Facebook friends with Aspen’s mom and a couple years ago I asked her if she could get in touch with her. A couple days later my mom asked me to sit down to talk. As she read the message out lout to me—from Aspen’s mother, there were moments where it sounded strange: things about Aspen’s adventurous spirit and curiosity, things that I already knew and would only be mentioned for the sake of a different point. The dread of what laid in the back of my mind was here—my mom read out the message saying that Aspen had died. It didn’t sound real; he was just out of reach, I just hadn’t seen him again. I can still hear his voice—our laughter. Then both the sweetest and most bitter memory left—
I can see his smile. At the initial moment that I think about him from time to time, there is a split second when I still have the urge to get in touch with him before I remember that he’s gone.