Dear Friend,

I never told you how deeply your character touched me.  You were different in many ways with your high cheekbones and long pony hair pulled back.  Always so kind and sweet without an ounce of threat in your demeanor.  I felt at ease even when I did not realize it.  You get to always having your guard up that you forget what it feels like to just be.

I never thanked you for the kindness in your eyes, for the natural way you greeted me with tokens of friendship.  Your drawings of Winnie the Pooh and his melancholy friend always amused me.  And it pleased you so to have me tell you how good you were.

Our conversations were quiet, mostly stolen quick glances that didn’t mean much but just said, hey – I’m here, good to see you.

I think of you often. I wonder who you would be. I can’t picture you beyond 13. And it’s funny because every time I see you, I really do see you, standing there in front of me, not a day older and it seems so natural.

You were a calming presence among all the white noise. So much noise. I never told you that.

Sometimes when I run and my mind runs free, I forget where I am and I think of you.  You run right beside me, smiling at my attempt to look like a badass when you know I’m soft deep down inside.

And here I am thinking of you again tonight.

Maybe it’s guilt. Confusion. Disgust. I’m not sure what I feel when I remember with what nonchalance I took the news.  Where is he?  Gone.  Last night. A simple shrug and I walked away. Oh.

Maybe it’s rage. The way you left. Not at you but at me.

I didn’t see how deep in you were.  I wish I would have said, “thank you, dear friend.”

Here I carry you.  Light as a feather.  Sometimes I think it’s you carrying me.  Light as a feather. Your smile.

But now I remember where and when I am and your image is fleeting.  I get older and keep living.  You float away.

For the both of us, for the many of us, I’ll try.  I will always try, dear friend.

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