Sometimes, when I cross Middle River, my mind drifts backward through my past. I had a friend for a brief period of time, a good friend I’d say. We don’t know each other anymore, but that’s okay.
I have good memories.
We fit like a hand fits a glove, which is curious as we were two very different kinds of people. And we laughed constantly at just how different we were too, pointing fingers in each others faces and ribbin and messin around constantly. As a matter of fact we would mess and rib and point fingers and laugh at just about everything. And he wasn’t someone who laughed at much.
It was all just right for a while.
We grew up about as far apart as people could, and you could tell too by how we each talked and carried on and particularly by our outlooks on life. His road that led here was harsh, confusing and never easy. Mine was less bumpy, much smoother. Maybe that’s why I felt fiercely protective of this friend.
I knew he’d been messed with.
Now sometimes when I cross the low and muddy and twisted Middle River, I think back to those times and hope all turned out well. I think of life—and how things keep rolling along—to the point where hindsight is like dreaming. I think of the people and places and experiences in our lives, that for some reason or another, are the ones that stay with us forever.
They’ve become our fond memories.
Let’s make new ones.