We lived on the same city block. You had an air hockey table and HBO and we always stayed up late at your house. I would invite you when my mother made pasta and we ate until our bellies looked like they might pop.
We worked hard at our pursuits. You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show. I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.
We drifted apart. You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer. I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.
We changed our minds countless times. You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright. I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.
We came to desire familiarity. You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher. I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.
We reconnected and now our toddlers play together. Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over. My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.