A true story, sad to say. I was a monster. For a Poetry Writing assignment in Fall 2015.
Samantha
By C. Randall Nicholson
It must be 1998 when I'm out playing in the front yard and notice a girl across the street. "Hello," she calls out. Her face is obscured by some bushes so that I can't entirely make out what she looks like. We talk briefly. This should be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
When we meet officially, her straw-colored hair and rounded face don't entirely match the mental image I had created to fill in the gaps. For a while I deny that this can be the same person. Then I resent her for it, just a bit.
Kindergarten is starting. "I'm going to tell Samantha that school is starting," I tell my mother.
"She already knows," says my mother. "She started school last year."
I tell her anyway. "I know," she says. "I started school last year."
Maybe that's why she's able to teach me that dirt is actually just really tiny rocks. That blows my mind. I don't believe her until I verify it with my parents.
Samantha's mother has to work early in the mornings, so Samantha comes over to our house to wait for the school bus. Suddenly a line has been crossed. I don't want her touching things and getting her germs all over them. I don't believe in cooties, but I know germs are real, and I don't like hers because - just because. I yell at her sometimes.
Sometimes Samantha, my sister and I all play together. We ride my little red wagon down the hill in my backyard, and Samantha pulls it back up. We pick chives and eat them together at our little picnic table. More than once, she says she wants to tell me a secret and leans into my ear to whisper, but then blows a raspberry instead. She thinks that's hilarious.
One time I pull her hair. I don't know why. When my father gets home he says, "So, today I learned that my son likes to pull girls' hair." As if he's never pulled my hair?
Sometimes my sister and I go over to Samantha's house. We watch "Rugrats" and "Zoboomafoo", and then her mother offers us dinner, whatever we want. I get scared. I don't want to eat in their house. I don't want their germs. I hurry home and eat shrimp with my family.
Samantha eventually stops needing to come to our house in the mornings. Some time later, she moves away. As the years pass I think about her more, not less, and wonder why I treated her the way I did.
It must be circa 2009 when Samantha moves back into the area and into my high school. I jump at the chance to apologize, but she's confused. "I don't remember that," she says.
That's when I know I can't make it right - not now, not ever.
I wish I could rewind to that day when she first called out to me from across the street. It should have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson
When we meet officially, her straw-colored hair and rounded face don't entirely match the mental image I had created to fill in the gaps. For a while I deny that this can be the same person. Then I resent her for it, just a bit.
Kindergarten is starting. "I'm going to tell Samantha that school is starting," I tell my mother.
"She already knows," says my mother. "She started school last year."
I tell her anyway. "I know," she says. "I started school last year."
Maybe that's why she's able to teach me that dirt is actually just really tiny rocks. That blows my mind. I don't believe her until I verify it with my parents.
Samantha's mother has to work early in the mornings, so Samantha comes over to our house to wait for the school bus. Suddenly a line has been crossed. I don't want her touching things and getting her germs all over them. I don't believe in cooties, but I know germs are real, and I don't like hers because - just because. I yell at her sometimes.
Sometimes Samantha, my sister and I all play together. We ride my little red wagon down the hill in my backyard, and Samantha pulls it back up. We pick chives and eat them together at our little picnic table. More than once, she says she wants to tell me a secret and leans into my ear to whisper, but then blows a raspberry instead. She thinks that's hilarious.
One time I pull her hair. I don't know why. When my father gets home he says, "So, today I learned that my son likes to pull girls' hair." As if he's never pulled my hair?
Sometimes my sister and I go over to Samantha's house. We watch "Rugrats" and "Zoboomafoo", and then her mother offers us dinner, whatever we want. I get scared. I don't want to eat in their house. I don't want their germs. I hurry home and eat shrimp with my family.
Samantha eventually stops needing to come to our house in the mornings. Some time later, she moves away. As the years pass I think about her more, not less, and wonder why I treated her the way I did.
It must be circa 2009 when Samantha moves back into the area and into my high school. I jump at the chance to apologize, but she's confused. "I don't remember that," she says.
That's when I know I can't make it right - not now, not ever.
I wish I could rewind to that day when she first called out to me from across the street. It should have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Main Page: Poems and Songs by C. Randall Nicholson
