In the unforgiving sun, you were soft. Wispy baby hairs caught the light in a mouse-brown halo. My unrequited conversation was enough for me, and I can only imagine the same for you. In my classes now, I’ve learned that people say at least 10,000 words a day. I think I had only heard you for a fraction and it makes me sad. Did you speak to yourself when I rollerbladed home without my knee pads because we catapulted them over the fence? I still have the scars, faded as they are, patches of nerve-less skin. Every so often, I get caught in a tumultuous storm of guilt and sorrow. I can’t remember your words, but oh how I remember your voice! To reconnect with childhood friends seems like an arduous task itself, but to telephone her when our existences suffer a disparity of universes? I do not know. Like a soft flame, you were too easily blown out.
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