It Takes Two

 

All of my history is tied to yours. Our milestones are the same, birthdays just a couple months apart. You grow and I grow, too.

Our skinned knees would take us higher and higher on the swings. I was flying so you were going to fly, too. Tired, you were going to drink Sunny D, so I was going to drink it, too. Exhausted, we’d dress our barbies in the living room of my house. You accidentally streaked her hair with green glitter, I was so upset with you. But then I took the same green glitter stick and ran a streak through the hair of your barbie doll. If my doll was a rockstar then yours had to be, too.

You put your Barbies away. The Barbie Dream House came undone, put into storage. I outgrew mine the same day, too. Placed them in an old pink backpack and stuck them in the back of my closet. I bought you a stuffed animal for your birthday, two months later, you gave me one too. I displayed it on my bed as you did with the one I gave you.

I’d get mad at you. You’d get mad at me, too. I’d pack my suitcase and leave your room and sit in your mother’s room, crying. I’d write a note to you, saying sorry, you’d write one for me, too. We’d pass it underneath the door. First, you’d come to me and then I’d come to you. Scraps of paper covered in raw childhood emotions. I’d bring my suitcase back in your room.

All my history is tied to yours.

We’d start our plan early in the day. You know, the plan to get our parents to let us have a sleepover. You lived an hour away from me, I an hour away from you. Some days my dad would get you, somedays your mom would get me. Driving all that distance, every weekend, just so that we could do everything, together.

We’d laugh, loudly. Always waking up our parents. We’d laugh for days and fight for hours. This time you left my room and sat crying in my mother’s room. I still wrote the first note. You’d come to me and slip it underneath the door and I’d come to you. Different house, same game. What goes for me, also, always went for you.

We’d eat ice cream, late at night, while watching a movie. Scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough, one cone for me and one for you. Still hungry, we’d warm up a hot pocket each, perfect how they came in two’s. Take our plates and our softest blankets and climb the trampoline outside. We’d lie on our backs, staring into the night sky, talking about the future when’s and what if’s.

All my history is tied to yours.

You bought make-up. I was with you, but this time it was just you. Even though, I shortly followed after you. You put eyeliner on my lids and I put together outfits for you. I bought black heels and this time you did, too. You started driving, I was still a bit behind you. But you always drove to see me, until I could drive to see you.

We traded our skinned knees for broken hearts. I cried and this time you didn’t cry too, you yelled. At him. And then when you cried, I yelled, too. At him.

I was growing and you were growing, too. I came to your high school and you would come to mine, too. You always laughed the hardest with me and I with you, too. We traded matching Happy Meals for matching bowls of Clam Chowder every Friday. If I’d get a bowl, you’d get one, too. If you were craving chocolate cake after, I’d want it, too.

You bought me a Burberry scarf for my birthday, I bought one right back for you.

All my history is tied to yours.

College started. We’d study together. I’d get a latte, you’d get one too. I’d bring one of my friends and she would become yours, too. You’d bring one of your friends and she’d become mine, too. I’d always introduced you as my best friend and you me, too. For twenty years, what I thought of you, you thought of me, too.

Then suddenly, out of the blue, you got engaged. I didn’t. You got married. I didn’t. You moved away. I didn’t.

You were growing. And I wasn’t growing, too.

I went through a hard time. You didn’t experience one, too.

You didn’t talk to me. I didn’t talk to you. I missed you and you missed me, too. You felt alone and I did, too.

Time passed.

I made other connections, you did, too. But I’d always think of you and you of me. Enough became enough. For me and for you.

You called me. I called you. I cried and this time you cried, too.

Twenty-three years later, when I say your my best friend, you say it, too.

(this post was inspired by today’s BlogHer prompt: “What is the moment that you leave childhood and enter adulthood” , but it eventually ended up taking a life of it’s own, funny how that happens sometimes.)