Willamette, Wash Over Me

Two friends, reunited in Portland – one on business, one looking for business. Looking for himself too. Thirteen years goes by fast. 

An Instagram story. A text. A beer. Palms caked and jaws clenched. 

Memories are like beautiful pastries, aren’t they? We don't want to eat them or fuss with them too much, but rather leave them as they are. Out of fear the laughs might be forced now, the stories staler than we remember.

Pint glasses stacked. Ice broken, we trekked down to the Willamette. Ripped

through riverbeds, just like we used to, as the sun sank and fireflies woke up. 

Gray hairs inching their way in now, testing the waters. Worries, much different since we last saw one another. Bedtime to bills, allowance to meaning, schoolyard crushes to fulfillment.

I remember those June nights, spent with covers half on, exchanging jokes and dispelling the world's greatest myths on bunk beds. 

When my dad slammed the Uhaul door shut, I remember my friend chasing the truck down the road – waving goodbyes from stop sign to stoplight. 

I couldn't see too clearly through the tears welling up. He might've mouthed something to me as we pressed down the interstate. Westbound.

Friendships, brotherhoods, bonds seem to unravel no matter how firm our grip, don’t they? Youthful promises, pushed aside, pressed into the dirt – a snowball standing bravely before a snow plow.

Some broken for the better, some it's harder to tell. And others still make your throat tighten.

If we were neighbors today, we'd grill together. We’d take turns hosting. A thousand-something miles away now, we're just strangers with a couple faded photo albums between us to thumb through. Strangers who would cross each other's minds during wedding plans, but quickly fizzle.

Strangers with a past. One that we hang onto, but not so tight.