  I have been meaning to post this for a while. It was written in 1990 - well before blogs, the internet, or even a PC in every home. The first thing I remember: Moving from a house I no longer know to the house in which I grew up. Grey insulbrick and bright sun. Green grass and - "Who is that little girl on the step of my new house? " I thought.
We were three. You lived just around the bend, on the other side of Big Creek. I had just moved onto your grandparents' old farm. This is how we grew up together. With our respective brothers, we played in the hay mow in my dad's big barn. We climbed up on to the high beams and jumped way down into the deep loose straw.
We built elaborate forts with the bales. We looked for kittens in your dad's barn. When I was big enough, I could ride my bicycle to your house. We rode our bicycles together around the concession. We rode our bicycles on your paved driveway. I stayed overnight.
In your room, you had a dimmer switch. Ken and Barbie did nasty things. We found a big June bug under your bed. You stayed overnight. We popped popcorn. We talked.
We laughed. We played with your Lite Brite. We played on your piano. We swam in your swimming pool. We played in your parents' trailer. We slept there overnight.
We talked about what we'd do. Now. Later. Tomorrow. The future. We spent less time together as we grew older.
Seven months younger than I, you were in the grade behind me. We met new people, made new friends. We still sat together on the school bus. We still visited. Now we listened to each other's records and tapes. We talked about the boys at school.
The day before you started high school, we went for lunch at the Coop. It was a sunny day, but we sat inside. We ate hamburgers and french fries. We laughed a lot. We talked about what we'd be doing in ten years. That was eight years ago.
This summer I saw you at the Country Kitchen, where you were working. We decided to spend a day together. When my parents went to the States for a few days, you came over. I cooked a lasagna. We went to a slo-pitch game. We talked about people we knew.
We talked about plans for your wedding next September. You were going to secretarial school. I wanted to be a writer. We talked about the future. It felt like no time had passed since we had last spoken. That was five months ago.
Saturday, I thought I should call you. Sunday, I didn't. Monday morning I woke to my mother's report. She called. She verified. I felt as if part of me had been wrenched away.
My parents and I went to see your parents. They cried. I cried. I cried. That was one week ago. It was summer.
I was wearing shorts and a short sleeved shirt, light coloured, with flowers. I was walking down Main Street going into Port Rowan. You and your mom and dad were on the front lawn of a house. The house was small, with white wooden siding and deep green scalloped trim. The grass was lush, a living green. You were dressed similarly to me - shorts, short sleeved shirt, light coloured, with small flowers.
Your hair was wavy, light golden brown. The breeze was soft and warm. I stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house. Your dad, wearing a light blue short sleeved shirt and old jeans, smiled and said you were ready. You got up from where you were sitting on the grass, and began to walk along the sidewalk into town with me. Your mom spoke, and we stopped and turned.
She said, "Arlene told me to tell you to wait until she'd finished her tea. " We paused, then you said, "That's okay, she's already said 'bye. " We turned back toward town and walked along the sidewalk. On the next block over, on the left, there was a parade we could see between the houses. A band was marching, wearing red jackets. The breeze was gentle, but warm and enveloping.
You were on my right. I turned to you as we walked, and said, "You don't look dead. " You looked back at me with a loving smile and said, "No, but you do. Where I am, everyone is so alive . " Wednesday was your funeral. I cried.
(February 19, 1990) 
