One Last Time

Remember that friend that you ate ice cream with? That friend that was there when you learned to ride a bike? That friend that helped you with math and sneaked you candy and went through the trouble of sending actual paper letters through the mail when your phone got taken away and you couldn't text them? Remember?

Well, I had that friend. I had that friend who would always push me to do greater things, who inspired me, who made me feel good about myself in my darkest days.

And remember how you made promises to each other? I do. Our promise was that on the first day of spring, we'd always, no matter what, go to the river and eat mint chocolate chip ice cream. We'd stare out into the water and confer. We'd have to sit there a full three hours, excluding bathroom breaks, of course.

Me and John did that for eight years together. Ever since we were seven. Our parents would laugh at us, but my older sister, Amy understood. She was the one who'd urged us to make the promise in the first place.

Make it special, she told us. For me.

She'd been twelve than. Dying of cancer. We'd wanted her to come join the future tradition with us, but our parents said Amy was too fragile. Her body wouldn't be able to handle it. She'd waved it all off, telling us to go have fun and make today the best day in the world. Our first Spring Tradition was the best one because Amy had been there when we'd come home, smiling as we danced around, telling her everything, trying to warm up. She died one year later, right before spring. We ate our ice cream in remembrance of her. That day was a quiet day.

This year will be the first year without John. This would've been our ninth year of doing it together, but instead it's the first of doing it alone.

I walk along the empty stretch of road, the river glittering next to me. The ice cream was cold in my hand, slowly turning the outside just as numb as the inside is.

We used to get our ice cream from a little gas station near here. They had mini tubs of ice cream there and we'd get plastic spoons to go with it. After three years of doing that, the employees finally understood and saw the pattern. After that, sometimes we'd get free ice cream that day.

I sat down at our spot, shaded by trees. It was quiet here, just a little, lone bench hiding from the world. I set the ice cream down beside me after opening it. I put two spoons on either side of the tub.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I imagined that the river was stretching out, becoming a vast, wide sea. I pretended there was a big ship, drifting in the waters, coming closer and getting ready to pick me up. Take me away to go see John one last time. I imagined I wasn't alone. I imagined John right beside me, dipping his spoon into the ice cream, that crooked grin on his handsome face.

I pictured his wide, gentle face with soft blond hair and deep brown eyes. The curve of his lip, the dimple on the right side. His laugh, deep and confident. The way he used to reach over and tousle my dull brown hair and comment on how funny I was when I knew I wasn't. How he'd stick his tongue out when he concentrated, how whenever he saw me, he'd sweep me up into this big hug and proclaim to the world he loved me.

Everyone in town had always expected us to get together, but it had never been like that. The fact was that we'd always loved each other like siblings. Best of friends. And that was fine. John and Ella. Always the pair. Where one was, the other was close.

I covered my face with my hands. That accident had taken everything away from me. It'd taken a brother, a friend, a companion. The day I'd gotten the news, it had rained that night. As if the sky wept for what had happened. As if it were sorry for my loss.

But the sky couldn't take back the phone call, telling me John had been killed in a car crash right outside Dairy Queen, where he'd gone to get me some fries. It couldn't take back the quantities of alcohol that drunk driver had consumed to make all this possible.

And I couldn't take back the fact that John had been there because of me. That he'd died getting me food.

I put a spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream in my mouth, the sweet cream doing nothing for the emptiness inside me. A piece of me had died that night with him.

I remembered when we chose this flavor. We'd argued incessantly. I wanted vanilla, but he said it was too plain for a special day. He said sherbet, but I hated sherbet. Butter pecan made me gag, cotton candy flavor was off limits. Amy finally suggested mint chocolate chip and nobody disagreed with that. Amy. Ever the wise one. She'd help plan this whole thing, smoothing over the harder details that our little seven-year-old minds had a tough time figuring out. She'd even had a little piggy bank that she gave to us to put in some money so when the first day of spring came, we would be able to pay for the ice cream.

I gripped underneath the seat with both hands, closing my eyes tight. Something crinkled. I blinked, surprised. Pulling it out, I saw that a piece of paper had been wedged between the boards. I unfolded it and a sob escaped me. I clutched it to my chest, whispering John's name.

"I miss you," I said quietly, teardrops falling like rain onto the little, crinkled piece of paper.

It was a little picture that I'd forgotten about. Years of abuse had it weathered away, but still seeable. It was of me and John, grinning and staring up at me, our little mud-covered faces beaming with joy as our seven-year-old hands twisted together to form a heart for the camera. John had insisted we put it here for our first year, to mark that this was our place. And we had.

I checked my watch. Three hours had passed. It was time to go. And I was ready.

I stood, smiling through tears. My heart ached with every loss I'd ever felt. John had left me one last gift. One, final, parting reminder that I was not alone.

I gathered the ice cream and the spoons. I stuck the picture in my pocket. As I walked away, I remembered something about the picture. Amy had taken it. She'd handed it to us, proud as could be. John had hugged her as tightly and gently as he could.

Out of three, there was one left. But for right now, we were united once more. We were together one last time.