There were many silly misadventures. We were, after all, just kids. I vividly remember washing our hair during a heavy rainstorm in my Mom’s driveway and how it promptly stopped raining right in the middle, leaving us laughing harder than hyenas. That’s back when poorly thought out plans had no more consequence than filling our mouths with soapy water. Bad ideas rolled off us like rain, into the puddle of a good story.
Michael treated me like a sister, and his little brother became mine. His mom called me her “redheaded adopted stepchild” and welcomed me as part of her family. My mother loved him, and that wasn’t an easy gain. We were the blood you earn. Looking out for each other always, I called him my “Tigger”, and he called me his “Pooh.” So it went without saying if one of us met someone we liked the other would need to give a stamp of approval before it could be considered serious.
Michael’s family was poor, and he worked to help his mom and stepdad from a young age. His biological father was in prison for double manslaughter. Twenty years before, he was a married man having an affair with Michael’s mother. When his wife found out, he shot her and her mother, then he tried to kill himself. Michael’s mom came to see him in the hospital and revealed she was pregnant. That baby was Michael. Born into blood.
When we were teenagers, Michael was the responsible one of our group. He eased his family’s burden by going out on his own at just 16 years old. Everyone could see this ambitious boy had plans to better himself; he had a job; he had serious relationships; he had his own home. I learned a lot about the things that are expected of adults from him.
He was my best friend. Then he was gone