On the Last Day of Our Friendship

By Megan Renart

June 13, 2016

On the Last Day of Our Friendship

We take shifts now. 

I arrive just as your mom is leaving. I want to hug you but you are bird bones, and I am a dinosaur, big and clumsy, breathing all over everything, and loudly healthy.

I pull out the pile of books I used to read to my fourth-graders--all by Roald Dahl, all transportive--and offer to read. You decline, wanting to nap.

I sit on the opposite couch with my laptop. Three months ago, the windows were open and we put on music and laughed. Now the windows are closed and the only sounds are the wind in the trees and grass.

Your head rises slowly. “What are the books about?”

We decide on The Twits, about a terrible couple who plays terrible tricks on each other, and you make noises in all the same spots where my students used to laugh. My heart soars. I can give you this.

You fidget deliberately. “My heart beats so hard now that it won’t let me sleep,” you say, and I want to claw it out and give you a new one. And new lungs. And new soft tissue.

Another friend shows up, and I stand, your bright blue eyes following me. “I love you,” I say, pausing at the door, and your face is beaming it all back at me. We hold our gazes, smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And I do, the next night, in the rim of the sky, where you’ve flown to.


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