Losing my best friend

The Grab Bag

I was sixteen-years-old when my best friend died.

Throughout my childhood, him and I were inseparable. On those rare spring afternoons in the Northwest when the rain took the day off, we played in my front yard for hours. We ran around, wrestled on the ground, and played with a youth-sized football. Laughter filled summer’s blue skies when we raced around the house – only stopping for the occasional water break. They were moments, in my young mind, which would continue to last forever.

Because of the nature of this world, my young heart and mind were not immune to disappointment, heartbreak, and confusion. Yet it was my best friend in whom I found such comfort. It was a relationship that was mutual because I’m sure in his moments of sorrow, my company was all that was necessary for his day to be a little brighter – like the glowing…

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