Dear Jordan,

I don’t recall much from my short time in the brownstone house at 1666 Harrison Avenue, but I remember vividly the day we reunited. My mother had mentioned something about an old friend from Eastside Preschool coming to play, and I knew you had been my best friend, but that had been three years past and all the way across Salt Lake City. The only memory I had of you was the time Max Wolcott had insisted his birthday was August 42nd and we were the only two smart enough to know the difference.

We were six years old that day, but already I carried with me a lifetime of hurt. It had been half of my life since I’d seen you. Your daddy was gone, too, you said. I hadn’t known that. I tossed one of my Reese’s Peanut Butter cups in your lap and in turn got a dimpled smile that would stay with me forever.

Things I feel like I should apologize for (but know that it’s not really necessary):
1. Switching our chocolate milk cartons every day at lunch and drinking all of your before you had time to notice.
2. Going to my dad’s house for the weekend instead of accepting your sleepover invitation.
3. Telling my mom on the way to your funeral that I hoped I could have some of your books.

Sometimes, I wonder what six-year-old you would think if she met nineteen-year-old me. Then I stop, because the thoughts are never good. I hate that I have your preserved as innocent, I hate that I got older than you, grew out of you. I wanted to grow up with you. I comfort myself with the thought that we may have not even stayed friends. Sometimes, I like to pretend that that’s what happened: that we just grew apart and that you’re off somewhere unknown, becoming an adult just like I am.