At five, friend meant more than the company of another child the same age, more than an assumed love for my older sibling. It meant even more than the love cemented through the biology of my parents. It described one's heart. Even to hear it spoken, the way it floated from the mouth seemed to instill the air around with warm smiles.

My friend - Fred - was everything to me. He was a Saint Bernard, the runt of the litter, introduced to me at a time when I had yet to crawl. He was always there. He was as familiar to me as was the taste of chocolate, the feel of a balloon, or the dark from a closed bedroom door. He would always be here. Always!

'Not so', said the men who worked at the kennel, whose large shadows mingled with my dad's own. I stood just above waist high as they talked of woe and regret. It was the first time I saw my father cry. Pulling my dad's sleeve, I asked, "What do they mean 'he was lonely?'" Then the one shadow bent down and told me that my best friend had died. 'He died from a broken heart.'

When I was but five, I spent two weeks in England visiting my relatives, all the while, back at home, my friend withered away behind thin bars of steel, unable to cope with my absence. I can only imagine what horrid thoughts kept him company. I can only imagine his grief, the feeling of betrayal that finally lead to hopelessness.

When me and my friend were but five years old, our innocence was raped without our knowing. And still, thirty years later, I wish it were I who anguished behind those thin steely bars. I wish I too could die from a broken heart. But I am cursed human, to forever live with it.

I miss my Friend.
I miss you Fred.

[To the editor: what I took to simply be a 'writing excerise' for myself has turned into much more than that. I remember a great deal from back then, even though I was only five when he died.]

Article written by: Matt
ofkain@hotmail.com

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