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“Wanna race?” you ask, looking up at me from your place prone in the grass.
“Sure.” I extend a hand to help you up.
It’s a beautiful day, right on the cusp of summer. The sun is bright and strong, but a slight breeze tempers the growing heat. The park is alive with activity and peels of laughter fill the air. It’s the sound of promise; the feeling of a season full of fun and endless possibility. It’s also the last chapter of our true childhood. Come September, we’ll start high school and together we'll tackle adolescence.
Although the sun is still high in the sky, the evening hours of the day are quickly approaching and we both know that means it’s time to head home for dinner. You frequently challenge me to a race and I rarely decline, although I'm much less enthusiastic about it than you are.
You see, I’m faster than I should be. I’m barely 5 foot and mostly torso at that. I don't have good form and I'm not particularly athletic.
You’re slower than you should be. You’re tall and your limbs are long and lithe. Your muscles are naturally toned and strong. It should be no contest. I shouldn’t stand a chance. If things were right and fair, you’d leave me in the dust every single time. But, you don’t.
You were born with a type of degenerative disease that, for now, mostly affects the motor function and sensation on the left side of your body. It throws off your balance and coordination, and your muscles fatigue easily. There’s no real cure or concrete prognosis. You’ll get worse, but no one knows within what time frame. Doctors seem to agree that your tenacity and hard work have helped slow the progression, but there’s only so much you can do. Not that you let anything stop you. Not doctors or diagnoses or days when you’re feeling particularly affected and have to use a crutch. You climb and jump and run to the best of your ability and then some. But, you have your limits and long distance running certainly tests them.
We take our customary places at the edge of the bike path leading out of the park. I watch you pull your hair back into a tight ponytail and I do the same. You’re smiling and making a show of stretching out your calves.
“Ready?” I ask.
“On your marks!” you shout.
You lead the countdown from three, as you always do, and don’t dare try to cheat or get a head start. We launch forward at the same time and the soles of our sneakers slap against the pavement in unison for a few moments. But our synchronization is always short lived. It only takes a few strides before your difficulties become apparent and I begin to easily pull ahead. You put your head down, lean forward and pump your arms, trying valiantly to keep up, and I let you. I pull back and slow my pace, though I’m careful to keep my face scrunched up in determination.
It’s hard to know what the right thing to do is. I don’t want you to feel patronized or pitiful, but winning seems so unfair that I can’t stand it. So, I don’t. I alternate between keeping stride and pulling slightly in front of you until we round the last corner and make it to our block. Our houses are in sight, nestled next to each other at the end of the street, as they’ve always been. I start to slow as the distance between us and our makeshift finish line closes. You’re as focused as ever, your head bowed down and all of your attention set on making your body perform the basic movements that should come naturally.
You reach the piece of grass between our houses first, as you always do. I make sure of it. You’re bent over your knees, chest heaving as you suck in gulps of air. I’m barely out of breath. Everything about this seems wrong, but you deserve the win.
“See you tomorrow,” you say, but you don’t look directly at me and the bright smile you wore at the start of the race has vanished. I can see you’re favoring your strong side, shifting your weight onto your right leg as you limp-shuffle toward the side door of your house. I say a meek goodbye and head in as well. Somehow, it always ends up feel like we’ve both lost.
By the time the next day rolls around and we’re back at the park the awkwardness of that moment has long passed and it’s as though the race never even happened. Such is our routine. We sit side by side on a set of swings, kicking at the woodchips beneath our feet and chatting about music and boys and our most ambitious plans for the summer. A comfortable lull in the conversation settles between us and we spend a few moments in silence before you twist your swing to face towards me.
“I have to tell you something,” you say.
There’s a seriousness to your voice that causes me to hesitate before I nod, urging you to go on.
“I’m moving.”
My immediate feeling is that of relief. Your tone had prepared me to hear something negative and I’d automatically feared that it had to do with your health. In fact, I’d been so sure that was where the conversation was headed that I almost can’t comprehend what you’re actually saying.
“What?”
“I’m moving,” you repeat.
The wave of relief has rolled through my body and a new, bitter feeling is cresting. Your words are simple enough, but my brain is having trouble registering the weight of them.
“What do you mean?”
You sigh and stand to face me.
“I’m moving. My parents want to be closer to a hospital that specializes in cases like mine. I guess it makes sense. I’m getting worse, but there’s still treatments and physical therapy we can try to slow things.”
“What hospital? How far? When?”
“Next month. They want me to settle in before school starts. It’s in Massachusetts. That’s only a few states away. Not like I’ll be on a totally different coast or anything.”
Massachusetts is far, I know that much. Too far. And our intricate plans of attending high school together are unraveling in my mind. I’m angry and my mouth tastes sour. My heart is fluttering with panic and despair and I’m sinking beneath the unfairness of it all. I’m not sure what to do with the swirl of feelings welling up inside of me. None of this is your fault - not the move and certainly not the fact that your body continues to fail you - but I’m struggling to keep my cool in the face of losing my best friend.
We’ve been best friends since the beginning. We were infants when your family moved into the house next to ours and our mothers would get us together for play dates in the backyard before we could even crawl. Before you were diagnosed. ‘We were best friends before we could walk,’ I’d always say, ‘and we’ll be best friends after we can’t anymore.’ The unfortunate truth is that you’ll likely struggle with the simple task of walking long before I ever will, but it doesn’t matter. We're a pair and we fill in the places where the other person lacks. We make each other whole and if you leave, a piece of me will be missing.
The conversation turns back to lighter things, but our laughter is more forced and I’m still simmering with anger and sadness. When the afternoon stretches into evening and it’s time to head home we both stand stiffly. Your tense posture is a reflection of your body’s struggles; mine a reflection of my mind’s.
“Wanna race?” you ask without hesitation.
“Ok.”
We take our usual places on the edge of the bike path. You’re smiling and it pisses me off. I feel like if I even attempt to smile my face will crack and shatter and unleash all the dark feelings I’m trying to keep at bay. I realize then that you’re stronger than me. It’s something I’ve always known, something that’s always been evident in your positivity and your unwavering hope and the way you continue to push yourself to your physical limits, but it’s something I’ve never acknowledged outright in simple terms. I’ve always admired you; always been proud to call you my friend; always been inspired by your resolve. But today, I’m hurting and your strength in the face of our impending separation is making me want to lash out. And so I do, in the only way I think I can.
You count us down from three and we’re off. I don’t listen for the sound of your sneakers against the sidewalk and I don’t measure the distance between us from the corner of my eye. I run at a sprint, unleashing the full power of my able bodied legs. I don’t glance over my shoulder. I don’t slow down when I reach our block.
I’m on the designated patch of grass that signifies the finish line before you are, but you’re not as far behind as I’d expected. I’ve won. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I beat you. We’re both hunched over and breathing heavily, our bare arms and legs glistening with sweat. I’m not sure how I feel exactly, but as the adrenaline begins to fade, a feeling of regret starts to creep in. Sheepishly, I straighten and look over to you.
You’re eyes are sparkling with tears and your lips are stretched into one of your biggest and brightest smiles. Your labored breath is turning into deep laughter as you stumble over to me and toss an arm around my shoulders.
“Finally!” you wheeze. “Finally. You really are my best friend. Thank you.”
“Of course,” I say quietly. It will be a while before I’m able to really understand your sudden gratitude.
“You were my best friend before I could walk. You’ll be my best friend if I ever can’t. Distance won’t change that.”
I nod and feel a genuine grin spread across my face. I don’t crack and I don’t shatter.
We spend every possible moment together of our last remaining weeks as neighbors. I accept every race you challenge me to and I win every time. But, surprisingly, you’re getting faster and the gap between us is actually growing smaller, without me having to hold back. You say it feels good to chase after someone, to push yourself, to try and match someone ahead instead of them trying to come down to you. When your car is all packed up and it’s time to say goodbye, there’s sadness, but it’s not the end for us. You promise to work extra hard at physical therapy so that when you return to visit, you’ll beat me in a race properly. I hug you and hope with all my heart that that day comes, but I know even if it never does, nothing will change between us. We’re best friends no matter what and I know we always will be.
“Sure.” I extend a hand to help you up.
It’s a beautiful day, right on the cusp of summer. The sun is bright and strong, but a slight breeze tempers the growing heat. The park is alive with activity and peels of laughter fill the air. It’s the sound of promise; the feeling of a season full of fun and endless possibility. It’s also the last chapter of our true childhood. Come September, we’ll start high school and together we'll tackle adolescence.
Although the sun is still high in the sky, the evening hours of the day are quickly approaching and we both know that means it’s time to head home for dinner. You frequently challenge me to a race and I rarely decline, although I'm much less enthusiastic about it than you are.
You see, I’m faster than I should be. I’m barely 5 foot and mostly torso at that. I don't have good form and I'm not particularly athletic.
You’re slower than you should be. You’re tall and your limbs are long and lithe. Your muscles are naturally toned and strong. It should be no contest. I shouldn’t stand a chance. If things were right and fair, you’d leave me in the dust every single time. But, you don’t.
You were born with a type of degenerative disease that, for now, mostly affects the motor function and sensation on the left side of your body. It throws off your balance and coordination, and your muscles fatigue easily. There’s no real cure or concrete prognosis. You’ll get worse, but no one knows within what time frame. Doctors seem to agree that your tenacity and hard work have helped slow the progression, but there’s only so much you can do. Not that you let anything stop you. Not doctors or diagnoses or days when you’re feeling particularly affected and have to use a crutch. You climb and jump and run to the best of your ability and then some. But, you have your limits and long distance running certainly tests them.
We take our customary places at the edge of the bike path leading out of the park. I watch you pull your hair back into a tight ponytail and I do the same. You’re smiling and making a show of stretching out your calves.
“Ready?” I ask.
“On your marks!” you shout.
You lead the countdown from three, as you always do, and don’t dare try to cheat or get a head start. We launch forward at the same time and the soles of our sneakers slap against the pavement in unison for a few moments. But our synchronization is always short lived. It only takes a few strides before your difficulties become apparent and I begin to easily pull ahead. You put your head down, lean forward and pump your arms, trying valiantly to keep up, and I let you. I pull back and slow my pace, though I’m careful to keep my face scrunched up in determination.
It’s hard to know what the right thing to do is. I don’t want you to feel patronized or pitiful, but winning seems so unfair that I can’t stand it. So, I don’t. I alternate between keeping stride and pulling slightly in front of you until we round the last corner and make it to our block. Our houses are in sight, nestled next to each other at the end of the street, as they’ve always been. I start to slow as the distance between us and our makeshift finish line closes. You’re as focused as ever, your head bowed down and all of your attention set on making your body perform the basic movements that should come naturally.
You reach the piece of grass between our houses first, as you always do. I make sure of it. You’re bent over your knees, chest heaving as you suck in gulps of air. I’m barely out of breath. Everything about this seems wrong, but you deserve the win.
“See you tomorrow,” you say, but you don’t look directly at me and the bright smile you wore at the start of the race has vanished. I can see you’re favoring your strong side, shifting your weight onto your right leg as you limp-shuffle toward the side door of your house. I say a meek goodbye and head in as well. Somehow, it always ends up feel like we’ve both lost.
By the time the next day rolls around and we’re back at the park the awkwardness of that moment has long passed and it’s as though the race never even happened. Such is our routine. We sit side by side on a set of swings, kicking at the woodchips beneath our feet and chatting about music and boys and our most ambitious plans for the summer. A comfortable lull in the conversation settles between us and we spend a few moments in silence before you twist your swing to face towards me.
“I have to tell you something,” you say.
There’s a seriousness to your voice that causes me to hesitate before I nod, urging you to go on.
“I’m moving.”
My immediate feeling is that of relief. Your tone had prepared me to hear something negative and I’d automatically feared that it had to do with your health. In fact, I’d been so sure that was where the conversation was headed that I almost can’t comprehend what you’re actually saying.
“What?”
“I’m moving,” you repeat.
The wave of relief has rolled through my body and a new, bitter feeling is cresting. Your words are simple enough, but my brain is having trouble registering the weight of them.
“What do you mean?”
You sigh and stand to face me.
“I’m moving. My parents want to be closer to a hospital that specializes in cases like mine. I guess it makes sense. I’m getting worse, but there’s still treatments and physical therapy we can try to slow things.”
“What hospital? How far? When?”
“Next month. They want me to settle in before school starts. It’s in Massachusetts. That’s only a few states away. Not like I’ll be on a totally different coast or anything.”
Massachusetts is far, I know that much. Too far. And our intricate plans of attending high school together are unraveling in my mind. I’m angry and my mouth tastes sour. My heart is fluttering with panic and despair and I’m sinking beneath the unfairness of it all. I’m not sure what to do with the swirl of feelings welling up inside of me. None of this is your fault - not the move and certainly not the fact that your body continues to fail you - but I’m struggling to keep my cool in the face of losing my best friend.
We’ve been best friends since the beginning. We were infants when your family moved into the house next to ours and our mothers would get us together for play dates in the backyard before we could even crawl. Before you were diagnosed. ‘We were best friends before we could walk,’ I’d always say, ‘and we’ll be best friends after we can’t anymore.’ The unfortunate truth is that you’ll likely struggle with the simple task of walking long before I ever will, but it doesn’t matter. We're a pair and we fill in the places where the other person lacks. We make each other whole and if you leave, a piece of me will be missing.
The conversation turns back to lighter things, but our laughter is more forced and I’m still simmering with anger and sadness. When the afternoon stretches into evening and it’s time to head home we both stand stiffly. Your tense posture is a reflection of your body’s struggles; mine a reflection of my mind’s.
“Wanna race?” you ask without hesitation.
“Ok.”
We take our usual places on the edge of the bike path. You’re smiling and it pisses me off. I feel like if I even attempt to smile my face will crack and shatter and unleash all the dark feelings I’m trying to keep at bay. I realize then that you’re stronger than me. It’s something I’ve always known, something that’s always been evident in your positivity and your unwavering hope and the way you continue to push yourself to your physical limits, but it’s something I’ve never acknowledged outright in simple terms. I’ve always admired you; always been proud to call you my friend; always been inspired by your resolve. But today, I’m hurting and your strength in the face of our impending separation is making me want to lash out. And so I do, in the only way I think I can.
You count us down from three and we’re off. I don’t listen for the sound of your sneakers against the sidewalk and I don’t measure the distance between us from the corner of my eye. I run at a sprint, unleashing the full power of my able bodied legs. I don’t glance over my shoulder. I don’t slow down when I reach our block.
I’m on the designated patch of grass that signifies the finish line before you are, but you’re not as far behind as I’d expected. I’ve won. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I beat you. We’re both hunched over and breathing heavily, our bare arms and legs glistening with sweat. I’m not sure how I feel exactly, but as the adrenaline begins to fade, a feeling of regret starts to creep in. Sheepishly, I straighten and look over to you.
You’re eyes are sparkling with tears and your lips are stretched into one of your biggest and brightest smiles. Your labored breath is turning into deep laughter as you stumble over to me and toss an arm around my shoulders.
“Finally!” you wheeze. “Finally. You really are my best friend. Thank you.”
“Of course,” I say quietly. It will be a while before I’m able to really understand your sudden gratitude.
“You were my best friend before I could walk. You’ll be my best friend if I ever can’t. Distance won’t change that.”
I nod and feel a genuine grin spread across my face. I don’t crack and I don’t shatter.
We spend every possible moment together of our last remaining weeks as neighbors. I accept every race you challenge me to and I win every time. But, surprisingly, you’re getting faster and the gap between us is actually growing smaller, without me having to hold back. You say it feels good to chase after someone, to push yourself, to try and match someone ahead instead of them trying to come down to you. When your car is all packed up and it’s time to say goodbye, there’s sadness, but it’s not the end for us. You promise to work extra hard at physical therapy so that when you return to visit, you’ll beat me in a race properly. I hug you and hope with all my heart that that day comes, but I know even if it never does, nothing will change between us. We’re best friends no matter what and I know we always will be.
