Waiting

I first met Carla in kindergarten, a vibrant little girl with light brown hair that danced in the breeze like the golden autumn leaves. She possessed a spark of curiosity that was palpable even then, often outsmarting the rest of the class with her quick wit and thirst for knowledge. Living just two blocks away from my house, it felt as though we were destined to be friends, as if the universe had conspired to align our paths perfectly. Every day after school, we would race home, our laughter echoing down the streets as we shared everything from secrets about our favorite toys to our dreams of the future. In those early years, we forged an unbreakable bond rooted in shared adventures; from playing school on my front porch to building fantastical worlds in the hayloft above my garage. Carla wasn't just a friend; she was my partner-in-crime, making each day a delightful chapter in the story of our childhood, filled with wonder and unfiltered joy.

At that time, there was an undeniable charm in the world of hand-me-downs, especially the matching dresses that my cousins insisted on passing down to me. Each dress was a canvas of vibrant patterns and colors, reflecting the joyful chaos of childhood. Carla, now my best friend, and I became the ultimate duo when we donned these matching outfits for school. Not only did we twirl in our picturesque ensembles during recess, but we also strutted through the hallways with a contagious enthusiasm that turned heads. The dresses sparked a sense of camaraderie, as we often joked that we were 'twinning' while swapping stories and secrets during lunch. We even concocted twin names such as Cara and Tara or Carla and Tarla. Today, I look back fondly on those carefree days, where it wasn't just about the clothes we wore, but the memories we created side by side, a testament to the joy of friendship and the magic of childhood.

On many afternoons, Carla and I transformed my porch into a makeshift classroom, ready to impart our wisdom to the eager minds of our neighborhood boys, Danny and Jeffrey. Armed with an assortment of colorful crayons, dog-eared storybooks, and a chalkboard that had seen better days, we took our roles as teachers very seriously. As we guided the boys through phonics and sight words, it became clear that our enthusiasm bordered on the overzealous; our voices rang out with authority as we instructed them to sit up straight and pay attention. "Sound it out, Jeffrey!" I demanded, while Carla paced like a stern professor, occasionally glancing at our “students” with a furrowed brow. However, our classroom dynamic often turned a bit unruly; our spirited enthusiasm was sometimes interpreted as bossiness, as both boys struggled to keep up with our rapid-fire lessons. Occasionally my mother would come to the living room door to admonish us. "You are being much too bossy and mean to be effective teachers," she would declare. But in our hearts, we thought we were instilling knowledge in our young students, creating memories that would echo through our friendship long after the porch sessions ended.

During second grade, Carla and I decided to write our autobiographies. Many afternoons were spent among Carla's cozy backyard treehouse, a whimsical sanctuary built with ropes of imagination and laughter. It was here, perched high amongst the branches, that we embarked on the creative journey that allowed us to explore the kaleidoscope of our lives and dreams. With the scent of sun-warmed wood and the nearby melody of birdsong, we revealed our stories in vibrant prose, chronicling memories, aspirations, and the intricate tapestry of friendship that bound us. Our biographies were brought to life with playful illustrations, where each doodle reflected our unique personalities; Carla’s pages danced with colorful swirls and cheerful characters, while mine featured quirky sketches that captured the essence of our shared escapades. As the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow through the trees, we would read each other's stories before tucking them away safely in an old cooler. My stories still reside in a box stored in the depths of my basement—an artistic testament to our bond that would forever echo the spirit of those blissful days in the treehouse.

The magical summer after second grade was a wondrous blend of creativity and adventure as Carla and I transformed the hayloft above my parents’ garage into an intricate playhouse of our own design. Armed with an array of salvaged lumber, we set about arranging the wooden planks to carve out distinct "rooms" that reflected our wild imaginations. Each space held its own charm: the corner nook became a cozy reading area, adorned with hastily made cushions from old blankets, while another section morphed into a bustling kitchen where we pretended to whip up gourmet meals crafted from dirt and dandelions. Rays of sunlight filtered through a small window and the loft door to illuminate our laughter as we navigated through doorways formed by stacked beams and crafted makeshift furniture from discarded crates. We spent endless afternoons inside our towering sanctuary, the scent of old lumber mingling with the thrill of make-believe, as we hosted tea parties, told spooky stories, and embarked on epic quests. That summer, our efforts in the hayloft fostered our teamwork and inventiveness within the enchanted world of our very own wooden wonderland.

At the end of summer, Carla and I chose the matching dresses we would wear for our first day of third grade. On the big day, excitement bubbled within me as I meticulously arranged my school bag, each pencil and notebook a symbol of a new beginning. Carla and I had been inseparable since kindergarten, sharing countless giggles and whispers that filled the hallways with a warm camaraderie. We had long imagined this moment—the first day of third grade, a milestone that promised fresh adventures, a new teacher, and the thrill of spending each day together. We agreed to meet at the big swings at the corner of the school grounds, our favorite spot. I arrived a bit early, counting the vibrant, golden leaves that fluttered to the ground, but as the minutes slipped by, anticipation transformed into worry. I scanned the empty street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her familiar grin, but to my dismay, she never showed up. Each passing second felt heavier, and whispers of uncertainty crept in. Where was she? Did something happen? The laughter and chatter of other kids arriving felt distant, muffled by a sense of abandonment that hung in the air. Alone, I took a deep breath and walked toward the school, unsure of what the day would bring without my best friend by my side.

The echo of Carla’s abrupt departure still lingers in my mind, a mystery that only deepened the chill of that long ago day. After my lonely day at school, I walked to her house to see if she was sick. I can still vividly recall the moment I reached her yard, an eerie quiet settling over the place like a thick fog. The lights were off, and the driveway was empty—a stark contrast to the often-bustling scene of her family's general chaos. As I peered through the windows at empty rooms, a knot twisted in my stomach; I half-heartedly knocked, each rap against the door met with silence. Had something happened? Was her family in trouble? Questions flooded my mind while the unanswered absence of her family haunted the air. As I walked home along the dusty gravel road, I couldn’t help but feel that whatever had transpired was more than a fleeting whim; it felt like her life was an unraveling thread leaving me standing in the dark, grappling with confusion and concern for a friend who had suddenly become a ghost.

After three years filled with countless conversations and nostalgic memories, my mom assisted me in finding Carla, who was living in the nearby town of Mitchell. As we made plans to visit her new apartment, situated above a store, I experienced a blend of excitement and nervousness. With a hesitant knock on the weathered door, I wondered what awaited me and my long-lost friend. While Carla welcomed me with genuine warmth, I couldn't help but notice a significant change; the innocence we once shared had transformed into a measured restraint typical of preteens, as the trials of life had left their marks on both of us. As we looked back on our previous adventures, I began to search her eyes for the brightness that had once defined our friendship, only to find a profound sadness filled with unspoken tales. It served as a touching reminder that, although our childhood connections had played a crucial role in our lives, time had inevitably altered our identities, prompting me to reflect on the bittersweet essence of our changing lives.