How the Years Change

Kira Rodriguez

Years ago, I looked at her and thought, “Too quirky, too naive.” I nodded and

smiled as she spoke, hoping she would face forward in her seat. She doesn’t remember

the first time we met. I do. I still remember the excitement in her voice as she told me her

name, explaining it wasn’t spelled like the Disney princess. A few years went by. Three, I

think. We were in middle school now, sitting in the same first-period math class. She

talked to the class, then to me, as we got to know each other on the first day. I thought,

“Too loud, too obnoxious.” I rolled my eyes and kept smiling as she continued talking. I

remembered her face, her voice, from the day we met on the bus years ago. She didn’t

remember mine. Weeks went by, then months, now years. I look at her now, thinking, “Too

wild, too weird.” I smile and laugh as she speaks, wiping away the tears and trying to

catch my breath. She doesn’t remember the first time we met like I do. I don’t care. That

was the past. I remember our bond, one stronger than one created by blood.