When I was 14, I had one friend.
Just one. She lived right next door and her dad drank too much.
Funny how as you get older you realize everyone's childhood was
just as ruined. That nothing you experienced or saw was any worse
or more scary,
or more fucked up than what everyone else did.
But when you're 14 and your only friend,
her dad drinks too much and your dad sucks, too
and there's not enough money for anything you want,
it's hard to think about getting older.
When I was 16, I had two friends.
My first friend left me. It was a breakup before I knew
about breakups. Before I knew how much worse it felt
to be loved by a woman other than your mother
and have her abandon you.
The way it felt when all your promises leak out,
seep under doors and infect everyone you know and don't know
with old secrets,
than it ever, ever,
ever felt
to not be loved by a boy other than your father
and have him leave you, too.
(The second friend was my dog, Theo, who hadn't died yet;
a pain still waiting to be discovered.
I buried him the day I left for college. I was 18.)
At 25 and now at 27,
This cusp of an age before the third decade of my dance on earth,
I am my friend.
I have been waiting so long for this, now that it has arrived I feel
closer to myself than ever. Hugging and holding all of my
sharp and unlovable bits together in a warm and long awaited embrace,
whispering into my own ear,
"Your secrets are safe with me. I will not leave.
Go ahead, buy another dog."
