In middle school I was easy to pick on. I’d spent my entire childhood in another country and actually respected my teachers instead of badmouthing them. And I was always drawing in my sketch book. Anime wasn’t big here yet and so I was really made fun of for it. “Teacher’s pet”, and “Jap”, were commonly tossed around. I was either too afraid of you or too nice to tell you no, I can’t remember which. You’d always ask to look at my sketch book and then you’d draw on nipples or scribble rude phrases inside. Sometimes even tear a page. And then you’d laugh. Throw the book out into the hall. In high school you didn’t change much, but I didn’t have a lot of classes with you after that point. You were still loud and obnoxious and confrontational. And popular. Everyone liked you. Everyone was nice to you. Even Paprika, who you viciously made fun of to her face. One year we had Geology together and I had to sit beside you. You asked very loudly, quite often, “Why do you hate me?” It embarassed me and made me frustrated. I thought if you really cared then you wouldn’t have blurted it out in the middle of class so every one around could hear the response. I always said, “I don’t hate you, Mark.” but yes, I always lent you my pencil.

You asked for my sketchbook one day when everyone was bored. I said no for the first time after dozens of brutal embarrassments had come before it. You really seemed hurt by it. You asked why, and I turned to you and told you that I remembered in vivid detail what you’d done years prior. You didn’t say anything and turned away. A few weeks later when we were moved to the back of the class (standard rotation unfortunately was that we’d sit next to each other the whole year and just move back seats.) You turned to me and asked if you could see my sketchbook, and that you really just wanted to look through it. I said no again, but you insisted. Eventually, I gave in. You looked through my sketchbook and commented verbally on the things you liked and didn’t so much. And then we started talking about movies and music and guitars and found out we actually had a lot in common. And then you apologized. I had already forgiven you. And then I bought you a pack of pencils. And then we were secret friends who shared our lives every morning in the back of Geology class.

I am trying desperately not to cry because I am at work. I’ve thought long and hard over what to do for you today, what miraculous words that I had prayed would come flowing from my fingers, but no such glorious inspiration as I envisioned comes to me. But I’m not going to just leave it at that, and say “simply” put, you are amazing: because you know I feel that way. Instead I’m going to try to describe something to you that I’ve never even tried to put down in words before. So bare with me.

When I moved away from you in sixth grade, a part of me died, and it has never come back. It was as if you were more than just a friend- but another part of me, that I could look at and see, another half. You knew everything about me. My fears, my hopes and dreams, and my darkest secrets. I have countless memories and I wonder who did what, or whose thought was whose, I just remember that for a time in my life despite the fact that my world was crumbling around me and everything I knew and understood was wrong- I was happy. When my dad threatened he would come take me in the middle of the night to go to California, my mom cried herself to sleep several nights on end, and for the first time in my life there was snow and it was unbearably cold, I was happy. I remember when we worried that there was a tornado warning for the first time in our town, I curled up in your hallway closet, and created radio tapes where we interviewed each other. When Amy Haggard threatened you (or me?), I (was it you?) pushed her down the snow hill. For the briefest of moments, I genuinely cannot tell our actions apart, but then the actual memory comes flooding in- the sensations of fear and tears in the principal’s office for the third time that year for violence. I can feel the grass between my toes in your yard. I can still feel that warm breeze.

I have never opened up to anyone like that since you “left” my life. Not a friend. Not a boyfriend. I am trying, really, really trying, but I haven’t gotten there yet. I realized, at such a young, impressionable age- that people can leave you, and hurt you, and leave you feeling completely empty, even when neither of you want to leave, and I never wanted that to happen again. And you were still alive! I hadn’t even reached the age where I realized Death did the same tearing, ripping, and hording of your soul. You weren’t just a friend I had when I was young, I can name several of those, but you were my life, breath, and inspiration. I wanted to be you in every way, with you every step, with you every fall.

And then it was gone. And it was hard to keep it going. We found new friends, new faces, and new games to play and people to love and touch. But I want you (or is it me?) to understand that I never healed. It wasn’t our fault, we were too young, our mothers did the best they could- but you (I) need to know I never recovered from that loss. And a loss it was. How can anyone understand such a bond between two people even exists at such an age? I blame no one, but I (you) know that I (or you?) never healed.

But I’ve been sitting on this all day and if I sit on it any longer you’ll miss it. I am glad now that we are older and both sad and broken we can attempt to slowly get back to that point we had when we were young. It feels so good to be your friend, even if it is at a distance. Thank you for being you. Thank you for being my soul sister, in every sense of the word, and thank you for loving me unconditionally, completely, and honestly.

Happy birthday.