I never went to preschool before kindergarten, and since I was a shy child who was used to spending time alone in the woods; my first experience of school was particularly alarming.  Especially daunting was recess time.  While the other children rushed toward the playground for boisterous games, I lingered behind – half of me wanting to join them, while the other half wished for the solitude of the nearest grove.   The introversion prevailed, and I almost always ended up on the sidelines, or wandering the quiet arboretum with its protective trees.  It was during one of these times, on an overcast Seattle day in October, when the little boy appeared by my side – as if he’d emerged out of thin air.   He seemed to be about my age, though I never asked him; a rather slight boy – like myself, but a bit taller.  Besides the fact that he seemed so familiar, the best things about him were his hair and his eyes.  His shiny locks were black as coal, and they fell in large dark swirls about his face and forehead.  And his big brown eyes had the most beautiful light in them.  The other very best thing about him was his smile.  He had the most mischievous smile I’d ever seen on a child.

Upon his arrival, he boldly announced that that he’d come to play with me; to keep me company for a while, until I got more used to things here.   He had a reassuring air of authority about him, so it never crossed my mind to question him.  And indeed, we fell into it almost immediately, as though we’d known each other forever.  We liked the same things, and our time spent together was effortless.  His sense of humor was delightful; at times his antics made me laugh so hard that my stomach ached, and I’d beg him to stop.  Like me, he loved to examine the flora and fauna, and he never ceased to amaze me with a knowledge that seemed far beyond his years; he seemed to know the name of every plant and creature on earth.  He also liked to play pretend.  We pretended different things – sometimes we were animals; like tigers or horses, and sometimes we pretended we were people – like Pirates, or Indians or Sorcerers - having great adventures in far away lands.  God only knows where children get these ideas from – a book or late night movie - or perhaps from somewhere else.  At any rate, it didn’t matter - he knew how to have fun.  And so, after some time had passed, instead of dreading recess – I looked forward to each day’s adventures with enthusiastic anticipation.   

The other children ignored him – as though he wasn’t there. He didn’t seem to mind this, or to have much interest in them, except to study them from a distance every once in while.  When he did, he’d get a far off look in his eyes, and he would be silent.  At times, he seemed slightly troubled; like he was struggling with some great decision in his mind.   I would notice his eyes then, as he sat so still, almost like a statue; watching the others and thinking his own thoughts.  When he was like this, he'd often grab my hand and hold it, and I would just sit quietly beside him.  I never asked him what he was thinking, for, even though we were both very young - it seemed too much for words.

Neither did I question why he never returned to class like the other children.  He was there for me each recess, and that was enough.  One day after several weeks, as I headed back into class; one of the mothers who supervised break time took me aside.  She asked me why I wasn’t playing with the other children and said she thought I must be very lonely out there, playing by myself.   As I began to explain that I was playing with someone and that we were having quite a lot of fun, she gently cut me off, and I could see the kind expression in her eyes - “Oh, I see – an imaginary friend”.   Feeling slightly annoyed, I told her that in fact he was not imaginary; he was quite real.  Although she didn’t seem to get it, she said she understood completely.  Then she directed me to go back inside.  I did as I was told, but I wondered about her and the other children – why they didn’t see him the way I did.   I felt sorry for them in a way, for, he was such a dear little person.

But, even though no one else acknowledged him, our friendship continued, and my affection for him grew with each passing month.  Then one afternoon, while walking home from school, life suddenly changed for me - as life has a tendency to do.  I was standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street, when I saw a young man on a motorcycle.  He was not approaching at a very fast speed, and when he saw me from several yards away, he slowed almost to a stop - and motioned for me to go ahead.  His smile reassured me that he'd wait, so I stepped out from the sidewalk and started to make my way across the street.  To my surprise though, instead of waiting, he jumped on the gas with all his might, and the beast of a machine came barreling toward me in all its thunderous glory.  In terror and shock, I began to run – trying to reach the safety of the opposite sidewalk.  But I’d realized his true intentions too late.  The last thing I remembered in the split second before impact was a faint impression of the boy; almost like he was there with me for a moment, and the touch of a small hand grasping mine – as though someone was trying to pull me up and out of my unfortunate predicament.

The next thing I knew, I was further up the street from where I’d been; lying in a puddle of my own blood.  Neighbors were screaming and running around, and my father was suddenly there, crying and shouting for someone to call an ambulance.  A policeman arrived first.  They loaded my crumpled body and my distressed father into his car and we sped off toward the hospital.  During the ride, as I slipped in and out of consciousness, all I can remember is my father sobbing while I made my best attempts to apologize to the officer for bleeding all over the inside of his nice clean car.

Later, I awoke from a flying dream, and upon regaining consciousness, I found myself lying in a hospital bed.  My body hurt all over and my eyes felt funny.  It surprised me for a moment - to find myself in such a state of affairs.  As my vision cleared, the nurse in the room noticed me and came over to stroke my head.  “You poor little thing”, she said “Well, you’re very lucky that you weren’t hurt much worse – no broken bones, just some bruises and scrapes and a slight concussion.”  She smiled at me, and with a heartfelt tone, said “You must have had an angel watching over you today, young lady”.   As I looked at her through half open eyes, a foggy memory formed in my mind – a flash of dark hair – the familiar feel of a friend’s hand grasping mine.  And for a moment, time felt very off somehow - and I did not know if something had been gained, or if something had been lost.  I seemed unable to speak just then, and a tear formed in my eye before I began slipping back into merciful unconsciousness.  As I drifted off, I heard the nurse say something about getting my father - that he was waiting - just outside the door.

I spent a week in that hospital bed and my father brought me my favorite - a new stuffed animal – every day.  He felt terribly guilty, I think, that he had been inside watching a baseball game while some maniac mowed his daughter down.  Later I heard that some neighbors had seen the incident though, and identified the young man on the Harley, who was apprehended by police.  He was found to have severe psychiatric disorders and was sent to jail – for a very long time - my father reassured me.  Somehow, despite the pain the young man had inflicted on me, and despite the fact that I was only 6 years old, I felt sorry for him.

When I got back to school, I thought that certainly my friend would be there - out on the playground, or in the arboretum - awaiting my return.   As the recess bell rang on my first day back, and I exuberantly made my way outside - I secretly hoped that he’d missed me – just a little.  To my surprise though, he was not there that day.  Nor was he there the next day, nor any day after that.   A week or two later, I reached the sad conclusion that he must have moved away, though I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t have told me.  Due to the lack of enthusiasm the others had shown for him, and perhaps due to something else of which I was not completely aware - I never asked any of the teachers or other children if they knew where he might have gone.  Still, during those first few weeks, I looked for him every day – my eyes hopefully scanning the playground for the boy with the dark curls and the light in his eyes - my friend who’d kept me company so well on so many days before.

In time, I surrendered to the fact that I wouldn't see him any more.  I tried not to let it bother me, but there were moments when I longed to hold his hand, and a part of me wished that our paths would cross again.  Because even years after he’d gone, and the memories had begun to fade and tatter - like a well loved coat that is somehow never discarded - I realized that, in many ways - which are mostly far too difficult to put to words – he was the best friend I ever had.