In telling the story of my life so far I've done a lot of painting, I haven't given you as much of the depth of me as I have of the sprinkled memories that cover the outside. This week I'll continue the story with a memory of depth that has possibly affected and molded me.
It was very possibly a summer day, we were living on the hill in the house my Father built on the hill, and I had friends. I'm not sure how many communities exist out there that are this way, but in our cozy home the children were often given free reign to run off to play with their friends. I remember going to one friends house, and then another. I think there was a vague rule about letting my Mother know what house I was at, but I can't say in retro-memory that I did that religiously.
I had a best friend. Our next door neighbor, I remember spending a lot of time hanging out with this guy, and kitty corner from the house there was another friend, he wasn't best friend material, he was one of the few parents on the block who had both parents working. One day, a day like any other, we were playing our kid games, running from back yard to back yard, exploring or playing pretend. He had to use the bathroom, so while he went into his house I waited at the back door, standing there patiently I caught from the corner of my eye him running over to this kitty corner house where the not best friend lived… and I remember crying to my Mother about the injustice of it. It's all a little hazy with time, but I do remember that feeling of betrayal as I tried to figure out why he'd ditch me like that. Now as an adult I realize kids can be dumb, but at the time it was a tragedy.