I Was the One Who Left
Know Yourself #44
Write about the friend that moved away.
It wasn’t any of them who disrupted our merry band of wilding Brooklynite children, wandering the streets with controlled, yet reckless abandon. It was me. I was the one who left.
I waited for my moving party. The same thing we did for Alex when she moved a couple years back. But maybe it was because we were all in love with her. Maybe no one was in love with me the same way.
The last day of school came and went. I walked home with my best friend, just like any other day. And just like any other day, we slapped hands and said goodbye as if we would be on the streets tomorrow. Or having a sleepover. Or seeing if his parents’ bed could withstand numerous suplexes in one hour.
But we wouldn’t be doing any of that. I was leaving. To this day, I assume everyone knew but didn’t say anything. Or maybe they did and I blocked it all out. We had all been together since kindergarten. We had all roamed the same blocks of Brooklyn Heights. We became ourselves, together. And then I left.
The friend that moved away was me.
A 3,000 mile move at that. From one coast to the other. From the Brooklyn bend (the correct way to eat pizza) to the Valley (gag me with a spoon). I was…
