Killing Samuel and Moving On

Letter Two

Dear Blake,

It became clear that you wanted more than what life was laying out for you.
It took three months of tutoring you to realize that you yearned for a career in chemistry.
The way your secret smile shined at the mention of our shared class was confirmation enough.

You only played football to
please your father.
Making up for his glory days after blowing out his knees and all chances of the NFL disappeared.

I knew nothing about football other than the fact that there was a
football in the game.
But even I knew you had talent.
Something natural and almost prodigy-like that the other players didn't have.
After learning this talent had been nurtured since your toddler years,
it all made sense.

You were never playing for you.
You were always playing for him.

It made me sad to see you being
led towards a future that
didn't please you.
But as you said,
it was too late for you.
Your father had already
set you up at his alma mater
with a full ride scholarship.
Everyone knew you'd go pro.
And you, never wanting to disappoint,
had already surrendered to this new path that didn't involve chemistry.

It's crazy how attached humans can become after only spending three months together.
Three months with you felt like the
eight years I'd spent with Bee.

And that was saying something.

But I guess, that's what makes
the old saying ring true.
It isn't about the amount of time you spend with someone.
It's the quality of the time spent
that truly matters.
Which is why some relationships of shorter spans are stronger than those that have years put in.

My friendship with you
reminded me of Bronte.
Minus the religious guilt, of course.
But there was that same warmth from before. That same kindness.

Blake, I miss you.

I wish you'd never left.

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