When my grandparents lived in town, I used to go to their house a lot. It’s probably been ten years or so since they’ve lived here, but it was a stroke of luck I’ll never be able to explain that they were here on that fateful day in kindergarten.
I remember it as clearly as my own birth (I told infantile amnesia to sod off) (oh god I’m so tired). Anyways. I was five, and visiting my grandparents. They lived in one of those suburban neighborhoods where there was a communal mailbox, so it was practically an adventure just to get the mail.
Naturally, I was excited as ever one sunny day during my first year in the public school system to go get the mail with my grandma. I like to imagine that I was wearing one of my flouncy dresses like I used to, but my clothing was unimportant. What was important was the house that was across the street from the mailbox. More specifically, the family moving into that house.
“Grandma, look!” I pointed. “It’s the new girl from school!”
And so it was. Rachel had been introduced to the class just a few days before. I hadn’t paid her much mind then, other than the brief fascination kids tend to have for new things. But now that she was a part of another location in my life, she sparked a new interest in me.
I honestly attribute our twelve-going-on-thirteen-year friendship to the fact that I saw her that day in my grandparent’s neighborhood.
Sorry. Weird post. It was written in segments over about an hour and a half. I can’t concentrate tonight.
College can’t come sooner.
