I put my memories into two boxes. One box is old and falling apart, but I try to take care of it. On the side of the box, the word “CHILDHOOD” is scrawled in big black letters. and I rummage through it whenever I need to remind myself that I once was carefree. The other box has “ADULTHOOD” plated on it in a big, shiny typeface. That box isn’t as big, but it’s where I put all the memories I’ve made since stepping out into the real world—you know, the one that’s full of heartbreak and loneliness and fear.
I don’t know which box to put some memories in.
On the December after I graduated high school I message my friend Brendan and ask him what he’s doing. It’s the first time either of us has reached out in a while.
Brendan says that he’s not doing much, and I tell him to drive on over, we’re going to hang out.
So, Brendan drives by and I run into his passenger seat. The winter air is cold, but I’m not wearing a jacket because I know how warm his car is. Even if we leave, to go into McDonald’s or something, we’ll always end up back behind the dashboard, having conversations about our favourite breakfast cereal or the girls we went to school with.
After Brendan got his driver’s license, we would do this a lot. We once drove three hours into the city for a bucket of mini donuts the day before our final math exam. We showed up to the exam tired and unprepared, but proud.
His driving is muscle memory at this point; we both remember the routine, through old neighbourhoods and dusty dirt roads. It’s just like it used to be, but something feels different. It’s like there’s a big empty speech bubble floating above our heads, and neither of us is saying anything to fill it in.
I bring up a few jokes that had always made us laugh in high school, and we chuckle. I ask him again what program he’s going to be taking at university, and he tells me he’s excited and nervous about moving away.
I tell him that I’m really going to start thinking seriously about what I want to do after this year, and I lie and say I’ve been working on my writing. If you were to look in at us from the other side of the windshield, it would seem like we never missed a beat from high school.
Without much else to say, we drive up and down the same streets like we’re checking the fridge every 10 minutes.
We end up at our old elementary school. I wasn’t sure if he meant to bring us here, but in a town this small there’s only so many places to go.
That school was where we first met. I remember it well, even if it feels like a lifetime ago. It’s in my CHILDHOOD box.
I had been playing on the swings at recess with a couple other guys when Brendan walked by. He was new, had just been introduced to the class that morning, and I just thought he was the coolest guy. I jumped off the swings and ran up to him and we just started talking.
Small talk wasn’t really a concept back then; every conversation meant just as much as the last, no matter who it was with or what it was about. Talking to people with the objective of getting to know them would be a weird thing to do in the fourth grade, but you got to know people by talking to them just fine.
So, Brendan and I pull into the parking lot of the school and sit for a while, listening to whatever’s on the radio. I think how cool it would be if the announcer said there was a killer on the loose with a hook for a hand, and we had to drive around the town trying to escape him. If I were a bit younger, I probably would have said the idea out loud, and we could have entertained it for a while, but I keep it to myself.
A few minutes go by, the song ends, and Brendan asks if I want to go up to the roof. It’s not running from a hook-handed killer, but it’s something.
Before Brendan could drive, the roof was our spot. There’s a wooden log about ten steps into the woods, behind the school, that’ll get you up to the windowsill real easy. You stand on that and pull yourself up. It was nothing, but I always had to push Brendan up to help him over the lip.
This time, he’s hoisted himself up from the windowsill before I can even offer. I follow him, my foot slipping slightly as I adjust my weight.
We walk across the roof and listen to the ice crunching beneath our feet. We say some things, but I can’t remember what exactly. He stops at the edge, facing the parking lot, and sits down with his legs dangling off the building. I sit down next to him.
This part, I remember.
“What a view, huh?” I say. It really wasn’t that remarkable—just some hazy streetlights grooming a haunted-looking playground—but I said it anyway.
“It’s a view, alright,” he says. I look over at his face. If this guy were to walk by me now, I’m not sure I’d approach him like I had, but I’d still think he’s a guy I’d want to talk to. I wonder if he’d think the same about me.
“Remember that time we climbed up here during that storm?” I say. “It was raining and we kept sliding down.”
Once we got up, we sat there for an hour, sitting up against the air vent and just watching the rain fall.
“I thought we were going to die.”
“Yeah,” he says, and smiles. He looks down at his feet and I think I see him open his mouth to say something else, but then he just nods and smiles a bit longer. I’m smiling, too.
“What were we thinking?” I say.
Brendan sways his legs in the air a bit and looks over at me, squinting through the falling snow, and shrugs.
“I guess we weren’t,” he says.
I look across the way at his car, the only one in the entire lot. His headlights are on, shining dim beams at the streetlamp in front of it.
“Hey, you left your lights on,” I say.
“It’s cool. We probably shouldn’t stay.” He stands, wipes some snow off his jacket, and reaches out his hand to help me up. “Besides, the heat will still be on.”
He dropped me back at my house, and I told him I’d see him around.
It’s been a couple years now.
Sometimes I think about sending him a message—telling him I’ve been working on my writing, and that I’ve been thinking about him and wanted to know what he’s up to—but it’d just be small talk. We got to have one last time together, and I’d hate to ruin that by having another.
I just wish I knew which box to put it in.
Graphic by Paloma Callo
