This Again, But Not Quite

When Melody left for St. Louis last year at the end of June, I thought I was seeing her for the last time. I wondered back then if I would react "appropriately" to her departure. After all, we'd known each other for so long. How are you supposed to react when someone you've known since seventh grade leaves without a guarantee of return? Was I supposed to break down? Perhaps a part of me dies a little?

We'd been through a lot, to say the least. I went from being an awkward, chubby seventh grader who reveled in her angelic aura (her paleness and seeming perfection helped to perpetuate that image in my mind) to a somewhat less awkward, more mischievous college kid who teased her effortlessly. The seven years I've known her have brought her down from her pedestal in my mind, but the more human Melody is the one I've come to cherish. Sure, we still have our awkward moments--what good friendship doesn't?--but she'll be one I turn to for honest advice or unsolicited teasing.

While Christine, Jessica, Melody, and I were in Irvine, we suddenly began discussing the future. Not just the next few years in college--I mean fifteen years to marriage and children. The thought of all the pressures still to come kind of freaked us out, but one thing stuck: we'd always be with each other. I guess it's like my dad said: many of my college friends will be future business associates and social companions, but the high school ones are the ones for life. We've become our own little posse, hanging out together each summer many times. It's good to be a part of something... indescribable.

Melody's departure last summer was heart-dropping. I couldn't quite muster the sentimentality I felt the moment deserved; it didn't feel like goodbye. All the girls there were lightly crying, and I figured it was another one of those accursed masculinity moments, when someone decided that society could not accept the image of weakness in a man's tears. So at that moment, I didn't feel anything. A little sadness, but mostly numbness.

Getting back into my car, I sat motionless behind the wheel. Snow Patrol's "Run" drifted out of the speakers, and everything slowly sank in at once. At that moment, with my best friend sitting shotgun, I sniffed once. Two small tears crawled down my face and fell on my jeans.

This time, watching her walk into the fray at the terminal, I didn't feel as strongly. I thought about it afterward, and it wasn't because I would miss her any less than before. She had come back once, and I know she'll be back again; if not the next summer, then the next. I can't wait for what adventures we'll embark on then.

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