old memories

Every 12 year old in the 6th grade made fun of us. But that's what we get for not believing the other person has cooties. I remember sitting in your living room, the one your mom makes me sing in now, playing legos with you. The other kids were out by your shed, the one I can't even look at anymore. We played with the legos I got you for your birthday, and didn't care what anyone said. You never warned me about the hidden step leading into your kitchen, just so you could laugh when I tripped. And I never made an effort to remember, because I'd rather hear you laugh. You made me watch Lord of the Rings and now I blame you for my love for Legolas. When you walked me home you taught me that if I'm ever with people who are making out, immediately wrap their faces together with plastic wrap so they can't breath. And then we would joke about all the people you have made out with. At school with you I learned how to laugh even in scary situations, and you were there for me in some of the worst. I tried forgetting 9th grade yearbook day until I remembered who was the first one to comfort me. Your hug helped in ways you'll never know. When we absolutely couldn't find anyone else to dance with, which happened quite often, dancing with you was an adventure. I wish I could go back to everyday I told you to cut your hair and confess that I really loved it. Exactly two years ago from today you visited me when I got my wisdom teeth out just so you could laugh at my chipmunk cheeks and bring me ice cream. I held everyone's jealousy in Chamber, because I got to stand directly by you. You taught me that bus rides can be fun when you're with a friend, who loved flow as much as I did. I can't get myself to clap more than 6 times for anything, because you taught me that that was the limit. The dumbest things bring you back to me, like a pool table or ice skating, two of our favorite activities. Even spaghetti, which you made me eat without a fork as a kid. I love remembering the laughs we've shared.

And I'll never forget that last time we talked. Or the feeling when I heard the news. Or that stormy sunday night when my whole view on the world shifted. Or when the heartbreaking sentence "this means it's real"escaped my lips. The "you can talk to me" comments pouring in like the ocean, when the only person I wanted to talk to was you. I wanted to know if you're okay, I still do. I don't want to cry looking at a selfie of us in my car. But I do. Because this shouldn't have happened. You shouldn't be gone.