In the Days of Cooties, we were Somehow Immune (For Eric) Luc Pirlet - Corbieres @ (1 cork)

We were four. 
It was around this time, 25 years ago, we met for the first time.  You were the Farmer in the Dell, I was the Cheese--therefore, I danced alone.  Spinning around the circle, I kept trying to find an excuse to stand next to you and get to hold your hand as we ring'd around the rosie.  You were the first ginger-haired kid I had ever seen, the first boy I ever felt captivated by.  Your magnetic personality drew people in, I knew we were going to be friends for a long time.

We were five.
Riding along the twisting, winding dirt roads towards your camp in the woods, I bounced in my seat due to the unpredictable terrain in pitch-black, middle-of-nowhere Maine.  It rained for days.  Gingie and Alabaster, a.k.a "Mr. Squeakers," had cabin fever (as did we).  Eventually your firecracker personality got the best of you and we braved the Maine drizzle in search of fun. Draping ourselves in Mickey Mouse ponchos, we fished for "the big one" on Sebago Lake.  We only caught a small fish but told everyone "You should have seen the one that got away!"
We road bikes through the mud -- or rather, YOU road bikes through the mud, I only made it half-way through before running aground and capsizing in slow-motion into the brown muck of "Lake D."

We were six.
You were my first sleepover, our moms bought us matching Pound Puppies and Pound Purries to commemorate the occasion.  Always the bad influence, you kept telling me ghost stories well beyond bed time and woke me up every time I nodded off.  The apple tree was blooming in the front yard, Mom got inspired and took a number of portraits of our adorable, six-year-old selves.
The first day of "real school" I remember feeling a giant sigh of relief when I walked into the room and found you there.  My best friend.  We were seated beside each other since I was DeL and you were DeS.
We played at afternoon recess together and didn't hear the teacher call us in, another friend, Joe, was sent to come after us.  The odd couple.  In the days of cooties, we were somehow immune.


We were seven.
Days of rain pooled on the flat roof of our tiny school. The ceiling collapsed and a waterfall of rain spilled over the breezeway.  They cancelled classes, called parents and sent kids home.  Well, all kids, except for us. You said, in your prematurely developed sarcasm, "I bet they're shopping." Our mothers, who had become best friends, too, were, indeed, partaking in their favorite form of cardio.  We were the only two kids who hadn't been picked up in the entire school, abandoned!  Left to our defenses! Not that we were surprised to find out that our suspicions were correct. 

We were eight.
I was the only girl at your birthday party (again).  Happy Wheels was the hot birthday ticket, and I can't remember if it was your birthday or another friend's, but we were both invited.  When the disco ball lowered and some cheesy ballad, clearly sung before our time, echoed through the darkened roller rink, we couple skated.  Terribly.  Like siblings.  You didn't have a serious bone in your body, thoroughly intent on tripping my skates for the duration of the song.  I held on to your hand to make sure you'd fall with me.

We were nine.
Snow fell on the long, frosty journey up to Sugar Loaf.  You had recently been discovered as somewhat of a snowboarding prodigy.  In this burgeoning sport, you picked it up faster than most and began hanging out with older, cooler kids.  I stayed on the bunny trails while you progressed to half pipes and black diamonds in no time.  We played Connect Four in front of the fire and even in that simple game, your spirit of competition and eagerness to succeed were very obvious.  I lost every game.

We were twelve.
You sat behind me in English and we made fun of our awful teacher.  You made me green earrings for Christmas, to "match my eyes."  We were slowly edging towards different sides of the play ground, and I felt special every time we talked.

We were fourteen.
We took horseback riding lessons together that summer.  You had transferred to a snowboarding high school, I hadn't seen you in ages.  I literally got thrown off a horse and you were the one who gave me a hug and told me to get right back on.  I did.

We were sixteen.
It was winter break, we went out for Chinese food.  You had just overcome a serious knee injury that killed your season training with the Olympic snowboarding team, the first ever. I was so nervous, I kept my jacket on to hide the sweat.  I struck up an awkward conversation about techno music, thankful that we at least had that in common, though I was clearly a fan through just listening to the music, you had apparently snuck into a show.

We were twenty-one.
I was a week shy from moving to Florida after graduating from college, unable to find solid work in Maine.  Our parents arranged for us to meet-up for dinner at a local Mexican restaurant.  It was freezing outside, you had become a smoker.  I stood shivering under the eave talking to you about music, snowboarding, life.  You were different, I hardly recognized who you were, except for the laugh.  Your laugh contained the perfect combination of mischief and joy.

We were twenty-nine.
Your parents came down for my wedding, but we had not talked in a long time.  I divorced a year later. That fall, while on vacation in Chicago, I heard about your death through Facebook before my mother had the opportunity to tell me over the phone. 

The Farmer in the Dell had passed on.  The world has lost one more firecracker, one more ginger-haired, magnetic boy.  I'm sorry that I never had the chance to tell you how much your friendship meant and that you helped shake-up this shy girl.  And I hope some day, we'll meet again and finally catch that big one, the one that got away.