At six years old, I had absolutely no understanding of how complicated that question might sound to an adult.
To me, love meant sitting together at lunch, sharing crayons, arguing about dinosaurs, and knowing which snacks the other person hated.
So I shrugged.
“Maybe.”
His face immediately brightened.
Then another thought occurred to me.
My older cousin had recently been talking endlessly about something called prom. From what I understood, it was an extremely important dance attended by people who were nearly adults.
“But first,” I told Noah, “we have to go to prom.”
He blinked.
“What’s prom?”
“A dance you go to when you’re almost grown up.”
He thought about that for several seconds.
Then he held out his pinkie.
“Promise?”
I hooked mine around his.
“Promise.”
And then, being six years old, I forgot about it almost immediately.
Noah didn’t.
Twelve Years of Growing Up Together
Our friendship survived the things that often pull childhood friends apart.
Different classes.
Different interests.
New friends.
Teenage embarrassment.
Arguments.
Changing personalities.
The strange, uncomfortable process of growing up.
Noah became obsessed with baseball statistics.
I became obsessed with art.
He could spend twenty minutes explaining why a particular pitcher’s numbers were historically significant.
I could spend the same amount of time staring at one painting in a museum.
He dragged me through endless conversations about baseball.
