I remember my mother dressing me in white tights, Honest Kids juice boxes, a game of tag, and the rosy cheeks of other children chasing me down the church hallways.
I hardly remember Noah. In our games of tag, Noah would always be a few steps behind me. We would play after Sunday classes, one hour of crafts, conversation, and early conversion, all led by his mother. All I can recall now is sitting in a dingy, mustard-colored room, Noah’s mother telling us to stop licking our dry lips because that would only make the problem worse. Right before our weekly game of tag, I licked my lips and had perpetually chapped lips until sixth grade.
I hardly remember Noah. I didn’t cry when the new kid, Jacob, came and stole him away from me because I still saw Noah sometimes. He still said hi sometimes. Until he didn’t. But it’s not like I said hi either. I just looked at him playing with that other kid, Jacob, and continued my singular game of tag, which was really just running through the church halls now. Noah and the new kid, Jacob, didn’t run as fast when I ran with Noah. That other kid, Jacob, couldn’t keep up with Noah, but Noah slowed down for him anyway. Noah ran behind him anyway. Green shirt, blue shirt. One boy, another boy. I looked down at the dress my mom put on me today. It was light pink, and ruffles puffed out at the ends of the sleeves. I decided I’d play a new game: how fast I could zoom past Noah and Jacob without them noticing.
I hardly remember Noah. One time, someone else wanted to join my game. He was older, taller, and had an identical twin brother. They never spoke, but they were always there, standing together just a couple of feet away from you, staring, eyes bulging out of their faces. One Sunday morning, one of the twins rammed into me as he was coming around the corner. I ended up on the floor, crying, with a bloody nose and all. He didn’t help. He didn’t say sorry. He just stared at me on the floor, crying, with a bloody nose and all, the scleras of his eyes expanding until he disappeared back behind the corner. To be honest, I wasn’t even feeling that bad afterward. It was the initial impact that hurt. Bam! I cried and cried and bawled my whole head off until a young, freshly wedded angel came and picked me up. She let me bleed all over her white church shirt, carrying me through the hallways past the boy, past Noah and Jacob, patting my back and telling me it would be alright until my dad took me from her arms. Only later did I learn that that boy was one of the head pastor’s kids. His brother was sick that Sunday.
I hardly remember Noah. The last time I saw him was at the mall with his father. By this point, we were in middle school. Sixth or seventh grade, I think. I was with my dad and younger brother getting Chick-fil-A. “Hey!” his father called. My dad yelled a hello back. Noah just stared at me. His eyes were huge, popping out of their sockets like a fish or that twin boy’s. I didn’t know that was what Noah’s father looked like; I had only seen his mother. Noah didn’t say hi too. He just stared. It’s not like I said anything either. And I guess if I knew he was staring at me, I was just staring at him too.
I hardly remember Noah.
piece by Elisa C.
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