orange crush

i learned about death
in the sixth or seventh year of my life.
no longer a vague abstraction,
but an intimate reality.
he, my closest friend,
was a year younger than i.
we sat on stoops, sometimes with kris or keith,
usually alone,
and drank orange crush from glass bottles.

we climbed keith's tree in the backyard,
overlooking the creek where we'd spend hours
looking for adventure,
and swam in the lake through endless summers.

more than once, out of the blue,
he would ask,
"will you be my friend today?"

one summer, his hemophilia getting the better of him,
he stopped coming out to play.
the orange crush in glass bottles remained safe
in mama's garage.
but, i still climbed and played and swam
with kris, keith, and mike,
and the lake and summer remained endless.


he was buried with his baseball cap.
I was sad, angry.
angry that my friend left me,
understanding what had happened,
but not.
i didn't know what to say to his brothers,
to mike, to his family,
at the calling hours.


they drained the lake years later,
and with it, the water took a part of a memory,
a part of kevin.

i would be his friend today, now more than ever,
if only he were here to ask.
but i won't drink orange crush in glass bottles anymore.