were both little and untainted by the world and would pull each other up
the slide by your chubby little hands, even though your nanny warned
you in broken English that you could get “hur-ut.” And finally you will
have to throw yourself into the reality of the situation, back into an
extremely used Honda Civic with a broken windshield and throw back
your tears and say something.
His light blue eyes stared forward at the still red light, the red
light that seemed to go on as long as we needed this moment, like a
stranger walking into a room and seeing a heated dispute before walking
out, saying, “I’m sorry, I’ll give you two more time.” The bottom of
his eyes now had a thin layer of tears sitting on top of his thin, brown
eyelashes.
Our glances kept missing each other, as I would look forward
thinking about what to say. Then I would look over at him, and he
would be looking through the windshield to avoid seeing whatever I was
thinking.
“Promise me you’ll keep in touch with me when I go. Please just
promise me that.”
His pale, pale blue eyes met my muddy hazel ones as he said,
“Okay.”
And the light turned green.
Out of solidarity, I wanted to stand by him and say, “I’m
definitely not 100% there either, kid, you’re okay.” My competitive
nature has driven me to stress attacks, as I pushed myself to the highest
honors classes, the most elected positions, the most obligations to frien