by Cat Holloway
I walk with you through the old neighborhood where we grew up. We laugh about the old times, the times when we were close. Passing by the autumn-painted trees, we look at the houses and decide which has the coziest porch, like we would then. It’s funny how we’ve changed. My hair has lost its blondness, and my skin has grown pale. Something’s changed about you, too, but I can’t decide what it is.
An old river birch appears on the right, the paper bark curling off. You used to gather handfuls of it, writing a story on each piece. They were usually about me being a mean princess who got banished to a dungeon. You said that was where I belonged. It’s funny. We laugh. I snatch a piece, fingering it. It pokes my skin; it pokes my memory.
I ask if you remember making soup from the spring tree-flowers. How we filled a bucket with hose-water, grass clippings, and flower petals. How we left it on the driveway for a week. How the neighbor-kid smelled it and then thew up on the concrete. It’s funny. We laugh.
We dip up and down the uneven sidewalk. I ask if you remember burying me under a pile of pillows in the basement. How you promised you wouldn’t leave. How you switched off the lights and went upstairs, leaving me alone.
We walk faster as we talk about our teenage years, trampling the leaves under our feet. How we’d scream at each other and then share the gossip we heard. How you would take my clothes. How I’d sneak into your room to take them back. How you’d yell at me for going in. It’s funny. We laugh.
I rip pieces off my river birch bark and mention your first boyfriend. How he was a tall, skinny boy. How you would call him your “man,” and I’d roll my eyes and call him your “boy.” How I’d have to go around everywhere with you two because you weren’t allowed to date. How you pretended I wasn’t there.
I ask if you remember Homecoming my sophomore year. How my date ditched me during the dance. How you found me alone and stayed with me the rest of the night. How you said he wasn’t worthy of your sister anyway. How we went home and stayed up all night, eating ice cream and watching Gilmore Girls.
The path turns uphill. We breathe harder, deeper, faster. We reach the top and watch the orange sun stroll down the sky to kiss the earth. I remember once when we took an evening walk like this, right before you left for college. How mad I was that you were going out of state, just to be with some boy. How I said that all you ever did was leave, and you told me to grow up. How I didn’t forgive you. It’s funny, but you don’t laugh.
“Why don’t we do this more often?” I ask.
“Because you won’t forgive me.”
“What? But there’s nothing to forgive.”
The birch bark drops from my fingers as it occurs to me. How the sun dipped down, and the night set in. How the breeze tangled my hair. How I haven’t forgiven you. How you’re not even here.
Cat Holloway is a sophomore Creative Writing major at the University of Nebraska at Omaha.