"and what of the wretched hallow - the endless inbetween"

A term like "friend" changes in complexity as our perceptions of ourselves, others and the world grow and alter -- the term is defined and then re-re-re defined infinitely. However, when we're younger it's simplified to merely encompass those with whom you spend a significant amount of time...

SO in fourth grade my best friend was Uche Emichebe, an energetic, african american boy who suffered from a mental handicap, rendering him rather inarticulate. When I close my eyes I can still see his endless smile, waving arms, hands gripped around a folded piece of wide-ruled loose-leaf paper, bouncing his legs, all to whatever soundtrack was playing solely in that private head of his. The aid, a woman in her mid thirties but seemingly much older, aged by the profession no doubt, often worried about my growing attachment. With her gentle, tired eyes, and a warm hand on my shoulder she'd repeatedly warn me about Uche's short and long-term memory issues, comments I barely heard at that age, comments that had no chance of resonating because the possibility didn't register in my brain. I could understand her words as words, but nothing more because in my feeble mind, time = memories and memories = friendship and friendship meant forever.

By choosing the grassy hill aside Uche at recess, waving our paper cranes in the sun, I was not choosing the surrounding games of tag and four square -- or participating in the girl drama of who likes who sitting next to you know who on the swings. I can understand the teacher's apprehension... but that time is not regrettable...not now and not shortly after when fifth grade came and I became cognizant of just how foreign I was to this boy with no memory.

I'm reminded of Uche as I experience the dissipation of a significant relationship in my life...or rather, my realization that it never was what I thought it was. Unlike Uche, she is very articulate, so much that she talks herself in circles, operating in formulas that she violates. This walking contradiction has always been this complicated...though I decided to, just like I did with Uche, write the story how I wanted.

Eventually though the two story lines meet. And it's at this crossroads that we either fall apart and choose a new path, or continue on, pressing the same keys, in the same pattern trying not to think about how we're pressing the same keys in the same pattern.

North / South / East / or West?

move on.

change is a natural part of / a constant redefining of / ourselves / perceptions / you / me / and why a tree is a tree.

as the leaves break beneath our steps
and as the days darken

so these struggles to strengths.

i move on to the hope of the blossoms.