Trey.

Trey is the boy who climbs the mountains with me. He is the boy who swims the rivers and gets me lost in the corn maze every year we go. He is the boy my parents used to tease me about, all the time, because we have known each other since before speech, or walk, or before three months into our lives. Trey is the boy who is my brother, my companion, my love, my friend. Trey, do you remember, remember that trip we took with your grandmother to Seattle? We stayed there as long as we wanted to, for days and days and days. And your parents came with you, and took us to see the Harry Potter exhibit, and I got to see a real chess piece that was used in the movie, and was so excited. Then I bought The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and we read it to each other over and over again the rest of the time we stayed there. Do you remember? And do you remember that trip we took to Elk Lake, when we went kayaking all the way around that vast aqua, never-ending, sea of freashwater. I would paddle the whole time because you would catch sun colored salamanders in your palms, and let them crawl over the kayak until they fell, squirming, in my lap. I would stop paddling and just sit there a moment in the water with the heat beating down on us and the freezing lake below us, and stare at the sky until my eyes hurt. Then you would say my name, softly, and I would look around at you, beaming, all smiles and freckles on my nose and sun-bleached hair, and stare in to your brown eyes, golden in the sun, and ask you what. Then you would tip the kayak over and send us plunging headfirst in to the freezing abyss that was clear and blue and green all the way 50 feet down. But I did not mind. Because then you would swim up behind me and wrap your arms around me and whisper in my ear that you were sorry, and I would twist around and splash water at you because I knew you were not sorry and you knew too. And I didn’t mind. And Summit Lake, and to the Trout Pond, and those glorious weeks we spent on the river, those weeks and weeks and weeks where we could float down the river in inner tubes next to the island we camped on, and get pulled out too far by the lazy river currents, and have to fight our way back against the weight of tons and tons of water. Do you remember that? Do you ever think about that? Do you still think about me? And do you remember that time we tried to cross the river in that crappy makeshift raft, where the current was too swift? Our parents had told us to not pass an old tree on the river bank- that would be too far. But we were drifting past that tree, so we abandoned “ship” and clung to the snag. It was disgusting, as you and I will both remember. There was a buildup of branches, leaves, river scum, and random trash. And you started to drift a little away from me, the current slackening you grip, and I screamed because I was terrified that you would be sucked under that and never come up gain. But I grabbed your arm, and you grabbed mine, and we plunged fearlessly in to the raging torrent and swam as hard as we could to the other side, which we finally reached and we collapsed on the bank, panting, only to leap right back up again because the rocks were burning from being heated in the sun all day. And will you Trey, take me to Tarptropilis? And maybe we can camp there a few nights together. That would be wonderful, thank you. Then we could hike back to the Trout Pond, or just go wherever. And we could maybe bring Boone and Isaiah with us, those side-kick little brothers of ours. And we could walk. And run. And swim. And talk about how we have known each other since forever started, and that we will know each other until forever ends. Always- in the middle of forever. Stuck in an infinity, with each other. But I don’t really mind. Remember our infinity. Remember the stupid times when we would make idiotic jokes and argue too much and were too impatient to walk, so we flew. Remember the stupid times when we threw salamanders at each other, but stopped immediately because we did not want to hurt them, then laughed ourselves dumb over our own strangeness. Throwing salamanders at each other. God, that was great. And remember the stupid times when we told Boone there were leeches in Summit Lake, and then I regretted that immediately too, because he clung to my back like a monkey every time we ventured in to that water, to go diving for Indian spearheads at the sand-and-rock bottom. But remember our real times too, not just when we were being stupid, if there ever was such a time. I won’t remind you about those. I don’t have to. I know you will remember them just fine.

Love is weird. I don’t mind.