Twenty-Four

He’s so fast.

I keep trying to catch up to him.

By the time I do, I can barely see his house.

“Come on,” he yells,

“catch me!”

He’s deep within the swampy cattail forest encompassing the drainage area behind his house.

We’ve played here a dozen times.

Even though we aren’t supposed to.

He continues tromping through our makeshift wonderland, giggling whenever I come close to actually grasping him.

And then it’s silent.

It takes me a few minutes, but I finally find him.

His face is colorless.

He’s crying.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks up at me.

Then I look to his feet.

They’re enclosed in the thickest muck I’ve ever seen.

And I understand why he’s crying.

There’s no way he can get out.

“What are you staring at,” he yells,

“go find my mom!”

I panic.

I turn and run faster than I’ve ran before.

But I have no intention of finding his mom.

Doesn’t he know what parents do in these situations?

He would be better off stuck than found out by his mom.

I promptly run home, into my room, and dive under the covers, shivering in terror.

I hope he’s okay.

I avoid his end of the street.

Thankfully, he’s a year younger than me and doesn’t start school until next year.

So I don’t have to face him at the bus stop.

A couple days later, I’m walking by his house, and his mom comes out.

I look away, walking faster and faster.

“That’s right!

You should be moving fast.

And you should be ashamed of yourself. What kind of friend are you?

Don’t you ever come back!

My son doesn’t want to see you again.

I don’t either.”

She slams the door.

I don’t blame her.

 I am a terrible friend.

I’m unable to reconcile the amount of pain I've caused his heart.

I cry on and off for the rest of the day, until I have no tears left to give.

Until my heart is as shattered as his.