December's Nights

You were one pouring human cascade the night I first met you. I was 12, and you were 11. Out on your porch under the glow of the December waxing moon, you looked so fragile. I could hear your sobs from across the road. And I couldn't help myself that night; I stood up from our porch and went to yours.

You didn't even look up at me when I approached. Your tears didn't mind me either. I mustered up the courage to ask you what was wrong, and you straight-up told me your iguana died. I told you I also had an iguana years ago, and you smiled. I was happy I made you smile that night.

From then on, we became iguana-buddies. We instantly became bestfriends.

Our childhood could never have been more fun. We weren't far from the typical bestfriends our age. But what separated us from them were our love for pretty "grown up" things: conspiracy theories, wild animals, classical music, documentaries, and crime/mystery movies and series.

Do you remember the night of December 22nd when we went looking for Bigfoot, believing he was in Mrs. Crumbsy's backyard? You said you always kept on hearing rustles and tree-branch-snappings every night. So we went over your fence to investigate. Well, your face pretty much investigated the soil close-up. But then, we saw him.

Bigfoot.

A huge brown hound with huge paws, and no leash, looking us dead at the eye. With no second to spare, it ran towards us, and managed to sratch you on your left calf before you woke the neighborhood with your ear-splitting scream.

After you got your anti-rabies shots, you still considered that an awesome experience. And I supported you with that. I believed that everything I do with you was always awesome.

I remember this time on December 4th, when I was 16 and you were 15. My mom had our back- and frontyard landscaped. You told me you loved those smooth, shiny stones my mom picked. So I sent you some by the night.

Through your bedroom window.

I threw you the most beautiful stones I see, and you were always there to catch it. You were laughing at how crazy we've really got through the years. My aim got kinda pretty accurate because of that.

But when I was throwing a pretty medium-sized stone, a bug caught on my ear, and my throw went off the way straight to your parents' bedroom window. The shock on your face was profound, but you laughed after a second, and I did too.

Now this, you should remember. I'm pretty sure you would, because it was a crazy, crazy night. 

December 9th, five days after the parent's-window-and-pretty-stone incident. We were both intrigued about slimes, so we decided to make some. It was all fun and games until I did something hilariously stupid.

I got the slime stuck in your hair.

We laughed a couple minutes of the slime being stuck in your hair off, but we both knew deep inside we were panicking. We both didn't know what to do, but you came up with a solution which I initially thought was crazy, but later on was actually a good one.

You knew me and my accurate hands. You knew I could pull it off. You were insane to ask me to cut your hair off, a couple inches above the shoulders. But of course, I did. And it turned out great. Your hair were waves of wheat and golden sun rays. I loved your hair long, but I liked you new hairstyle better. You looked younger and more mature at the same time.

And I realized I was starting to fall.

I didn't make a move. I didn't want us to end just because of the petty matters of my heart. Our friendship was way more important than that. 

Now, now. I bet you remember December 20th? The night of the Belgian waffles.

We were both fourteen when we discovered a heavenly Belgian waffles shop a block away from our homes. Since then, it's been our place. The place of everything. Our secrets were spilled there, mostly written on the table napkins.

The night of the Belgian waffles was another of our crazy ideas. It was actually written on our bucket lists. We got discount coupons from since last year and we've been collecting it for a chance to fulfill this goal: 

To eat every flavor of Belgian waffles the shop serves. 

We ordered all 43 flavors—11 breakfast flavors, 21 sweet flavors, and 12 overloads. I suggested to take them home, but you insisted we eat at the shop. And so we did.

It took us more or less two and a half hours to finish all off. We both laughed at the insanity that was us. We were the only people left in the shop, although they're open 24/7. I looked at you with a smile on my face. Custard streaks your cheeks and hair, chocolate smears on your shirt sleeves, jam still stuck in your teeth, your stomach bloated, but you still looked too beautiful under the dim light of our booth. I kept on staring at you like you were one hell of a messy painting—still beautiful and worth a million bucks even if it's indecipherable.

The day that followed that night was horrible. We both were horribly sick. How could we not be, after all, we did eat a concoction of flavors that weren't exactly meant to be mixed.

We just spent the whole day sprawled on your sofa, holding a bucket, and wrapped in blankets. It wasn't the worst situation we've been in, so we were rather fine with it.

Few days had passed and we were back to our normal crazy selves. We spent the whole day before Christmas Eve pranking the neighbourhood.

We built snowmans and hid balloons filled with blood red viscous mixture on its head. And when a neighbor passed by we'd stab the head and let the "blood" flow. Oh, the terrified looks on their faces were priceless for us. We turned Christmas Eve into Halloween.

The night of December 25th, I got you a present. It was something so close to both our hearts, and I've always wanted to give you one.

An iguana.

I remembered the night your pet died, how you looked and probably felt. So when I came by a pet shop, you were the very forst one that cane into my mind.

You were so happy that night. And in honor of both of us, you named her Ceda—a mix of our names. I kept on looking at you, remembering the details of that night: how your eyes lit up upon seeing your new pet; the width of your smile, and the harmony of your laugh; the way you hair illuminates under the moonlight; the usual wildflower scent you smell of, and; the strady beat of your chest as you wrapped me in your arms.

I would have given anything to let that moment take a little while longer.

I just turned 19, and you were 18. It was the 10th of December, and I went to your home. Your mom opened the door and told me you weren't around. That you were at your cousin's far from town.

I was upset, of course, because you didn't tell me. You didn't even say goodbye. But I told myself it was just a night, or a week at most. I was still thinking on the brighter side.

But I was wrong.

Days became weeks. Weeks turned to months, and then it turned to years. You didn't come back. I didn't see as much as your shadow anymore. Your parents were just gone. They treated me like a son, like family, but they didn't tell me where you've gone. They didn't say goodbye. 

Until now, seven years later, I'm still waiting for you.

You know why our stories only happen in December? Because it was the only month that you're around. The rest of the year, as you told me, you were attending school and a month of summer classes at another part of the country. I didn't mind that, but now I realise, I didn't really know you. And you haven't been honest with me.

Now I'm 26 and you're 25. It's the 10th of December. The night I didn't see you anymore, seven years later. I sit on our porch stairs quite enjoying the chill of the night breeze. Silently hoping to see you again.

A car stops right at the front of your house. I stood to take a good look at the passengers, praying to all the gods there are that you'll be there.

And yes, you are there.

I run across the road and call out your name. You turn around and look at me, then after a beat, you smile. But there was something different about your smile. It was the smile you give to people when you know you should know them, but you don't.

And I was right.

Your parents get off of the car and look at me apologetically. But I didn't mind them as you speak. That mellifluous tone of yours that never failed to provide warmth and comfort.

"Hi, uhm, should I know you?" You tuck a lock of your now long hair behind your ear, "I'm sorry, I forgot everything after my operation, so I don't remember anyone yet."

A lump in my throat forms and I force to swallow despite it. 

"Uh. . .," I can't speak. I can't seem to form the right words. I'm starting to feel like I'm going to be like you when we first met—a pouring human cascade. But I hold back the tears, and manage to croak a few words with my hand outstreched:

"I'm Cedric."

You smile, and reach for my hand.

"Hi, I'm Laura."