We Met When We Were 8 and 9

Allison and I used to walk through clothing aisles for fun. We’d search for the ugliest article, hold it up for the other to see across the way, make a sound like only a 13 year old can and laugh like crazy. Really it was a sport for us, at least once a week for many months. I thought not once about who we might be annoying or not impressing. We certainly were not impressed and everybody should know right? Gblaahch!
We rode our bikes between our homes, through the middle of Evanston, mostly down Wesley. Lots of yellow houses on that route. We cleaned her house once a week because she had chores to do but we wanted to be together. I avoided her cat. Beautiful but unfriendly. We sometimes spent an afternoon in her parent’s bedroom den where the typewriter sat and wrote stories and poems. We danced all over the living room, we cried (a lot) at all the trouble life was becoming as we got older, we sang loud to Duran Duran and Simon and Garfunkel as it played on the turntable that sat in the corner of the dining room I don’t remember ever seeing anyone eat in since there was a more convenient dining table in the kitchen.
We watched Alex, The Life of a Child more than once and cried every time, especially in the last scene when Alex raises up, radiant, looking into a beyond her parents must wait for to be with her again. Fybromialga was real and now we knew what it was. I can’t even write that with out starting to cry.
We played badminton in her yard most warm afternoons, our only objective to see how long we could keep the birdie in the air. When I looked toward the house from my side of the net I saw a gallon of tea basking in the sun on a yard table. I always wanted some but we were never allowed. That tea never made it to the fridge, or my mouth as far as I can remember.
We often walked to the beach, walked aimlessly around downtown Evanston, waked because we had to move. One summer she helped me watch a couple brothers who were 10 and 12. By then we were 14 and 15, not mature but making an attempt.
Time went by.
I went to college for a semester and discovered Natalie Goldberg’s book Writing Down the Bones. I was 21. Most of what I can remember from then on is sitting across from each other at a small cafe table, cigarettes burning in the ashtray, 2 cups of coffee in white ceramic mugs, our heads bowed over spirals, each writing rapidly, aiming for first thoughts for 10 minutes, no editing. When time was up we’d raise our heads and look at each other, eyes dazed, bodies resettling into the moment, breathe deep and smile. Then we’d each read aloud what we’d written. Her pieces were these intense journeys into the heart. Her imagery was rich, a journey into magic in the form of a land we both wanted to go to where colors speak and music has gentle caressing hands. I don’t know what I wrote. I have all or most of it in a box in my bedroom. We’d immediately choose another first line or topic then bow again to the rush of creativity.
I wrote with many friends over the years in this way. I’ve been there when people who never thought they could write looked up after reading what they’d written (or listened as I read aloud with their permission since they felt embarrassed) either with a full smile or holding in a smile of pride, delighted at their work, aware for the first time that they could write, really write!
But it was the hours with Allison that are the foundation. At one point we lived in the same building, sharing morning coffee with our legs stretched out before us, a crate for an end table, keeping a close on eye on her most recent cat Cassidy who was aggressively playful and more than a little scary. I have memories and pictures of Cassidy flying theough the air, all 4 legs stretched out ready to land claws emerged onto her prey which was sometims a human body part. We’d talk shop in the evening after our shifts of waiting on the public, helping them eat. Eventually I moved away into the cornfields and she moved away to another state.
Time passes but we remain aware of childhood through the harder tests/gifts of becoming an adult, a spouce, a parent, as well as the inevitable challenges of an expectation of maturity and what that looks like outwardly.
A few months back I saw a friends teenage daughter and her friend at Target. They didn’t see me. One of them held out a fascinating shirt from the round rack for the other to appreciate, crinkled her nose, made a unique noise as only a teenager can and they burst out laughing.
At first I thought about immaturity, ready to judge, wondering how long until they’d grow out of such inconsiderate behavior.
Then I thought about friendship.