Memories That Fade Like Photographs,
Promise – noun
1. A declaration that something will or will not be done, given, etc.
2. Something that has the effect of an express assurance; indication of what may be expected.
It was silly of me to believe a five year old's silly, little pinky promise. Given I was five at the time, too. But, still, don't mess with a little girl's heart like that. If you can't keep a promise, don't make it in the first place. As I look back at the situation now, I realize how foolish it was of me to think people could actually stay in your life forever.
It was the day I broke my arm, eleven years ago. We were having our daily 'Whoever-can–jump-the-farthest-off-the-swings-wins' contest. He would always win, but that day I was determined to be the winner. I pumped my little legs as fast as I could and let go of the rusty chain, soaring through the air.
I landed farther than he had ever gotten, but I landed on my right arm. I remember the shooting pain and the sound of my bone cracking. It still makes me cringe. I just sat there for a minute and stared at my arm confusedly. Then, the tears came.
He jumped off his swing and sprinted to where I sat. "What's wrong?"
"My arm..." I sniffled.
"Stay here. I'll go get your mommy."
"No. Don't leave me," I cried out, grabbing his hand with my good arm.
"I'll never, ever leave you. No matter what, I'll stay by your side," he said. He didn't say it exactly like that, though. It sounded a bit more childish, but that's because he was five!
I looked up at him with wide, blue eyes. He was my best friend, my partner in crime, my next door neighbor, the peanut butter to my jelly. Just like our mothers. "Pinky promise?"
He nodded and stuck his pinky out and clasped it with mine.
He stayed with me when we went to the hospital, he helped me choose a bright blue cast, and he was the first one to sign it.
He didn't leave me, he kept the promise for seven years.
It was the last day of sixth grade and we were all playing soccer in the middle school's field. It was me and him versus two other boys that we always hungout with. Tied at two, we decided whoever scored the third goal won the game. We were getting really into it, acting as if our lives depended on winning. One of the boys tripped him to get the ball. That made me angry, so I stole the ball from the blonde boy and kicked as hard as I could into the goal post.
I grinned like a maniac and my best friend returned it. He ran up to me and the next thing I knew, his lips were on mine.
My first kiss. I knew it was his too.
The next day went on like nothing happened between the two of us. Which I was fine with. We were both sitting on the grass in my backyard, bored to death because there was nothing to do.
"I'm moving," he said suddenly, ruining the calming silence.
I took a shaky breath when I actually realized what he'd said, "What?...When?"
"WHAT?! How could you? You said you'd never leave me," I exclaimed, standing up. Tears were starting to spill from my eyes.
"Don't do this," he whispered, wiping the tears from my cheeks. "Don't make this even harder."
I ran upstairs and locked myself in my room. I heard his footsteps after me, but I ignored it.
"Come on. We'll still be best friends. I'll still be there for you whenever you need me," he said through the door. By his voice, I could tell he was crying too. I hadn't seen him cry since he was eight. He slid a locket under the door, and that's all that I had left of him.
But, whatever. It's been four years, I'm over it.