For many years, I did not think about you, until one night, I imagined myself on the bus again, sitting beside you, and I could not understand how I had forgotten you. I swore to myself that I would not forget again, that perhaps my memory could tether you here. But there was one hole in my plan. I could not remember your name.
I found it again, a few years later, in the pages of my kindergarten directory, which I have now misplaced, and though I held the page in my hands and swore that I would remember your name this time, now I only know that it starts with a B. I have tried to fill in the gaps, tried to ask myself if you were a Braden or a Ben or a Brock, but it feels wrong to impose an identity on you when the truth is, I can barely claim to know you at all.
We were simply "bus buddies," a relationship born out of convenience and a lack of empty seats, friends for only thirty minutes a day.
We were simply “bus buddies,” a relationship born out of convenience and a lack of empty seats, friends for only thirty minutes a day. But we had begun to move into new territory, toward a friendship not limited to such a short temporal span. You had begun to teach me the language your family spoke, which I can no longer remember, and though my childish tongue must have butchered even the simplest phrase, you were a dutiful, patient teacher. I cannot remember the language or any words, and I do not believe I ever got the chance to practice with anyone other than you, not with your little brother or your mother, who both waited every day in the driveway to welcome you home. I only ever saw your mother from afar, through a smudged bus window, but I know you had her smile.
Yes, your smile is what I can remember, more so than anything. I cannot remember a single word you taught me or the name of your kindergarten teacher. But I remember the poster on her classroom wall, the one with your face that she hung up after winter break. Though I could read the cards lined up beneath your smile, I did not understand what they meant. I did not understand why the bus no longer opened its doors at your stop.
The teachers tried their best to explain why your desk was empty, but the rumors my peers started were more compelling than the truth. In the end, I convinced myself that you had just moved, though I could not deny that there had been an accident. When I tried to envision your hospital stay, the image was clean and white and sterile, with you smiling and sitting up in bed, eating breakfast on a tray, your family sleeping in four little twin cots. I’d planned to invite you to my sixth birthday party, and I remember playing on the inflatable slide and waiting for you to walk through the door. Eventually, I stopped waiting for that door to open or for the bus to stop.
I have tried to speak to you, to tell you that I am sorry and that I miss you, but how can I send you a message, how can I even attempt to breach whatever plane you inhabit now if I do not know your name?
I have tried to find proof. I have tried to find an article or a picture or a story about you, your accident, your absence. Part of me is afraid to look, afraid to ask, because what if the memories I do have are wrong? It is unlikely, but I am plagued by the irrational fear that I made you up entirely, that my young mind warped your real existence into some false traumatic tale. Yet, I feel your absence when I pass by your old house and see that your treehouse has been repainted by the new owners. I see your face, your poster, in my mind, and I wonder if we would’ve remained friends past kindergarten and if your smile would still be the same if you were here today. And more so than anything, I cannot help but feel guilty. I have tried to speak to you, to tell you that I am sorry and that I miss you, but how can I send you a message, how can I even attempt to breach whatever plane you inhabit now if I do not know your name?
