I hope my ex-friends smile when they think of me. I hope, that when they remember all of our childhood summers, they think "wow, she really loved me." I hope, no matter where they are or how old they grow, that when they feel alone they know that sometime, somewhere, I loved them because they were worth loving. And that they are still worth loving.
I hope they remember our bike adventures to the creek and cutting up apples with a pocket knife. I hope they know that every little token of friendship I gave them, every necklace from claires, every Christmas present, was real. That I meant it with every fiber of my 12 year-old self. I hope they remember authenticity.
I hope I helped make them become the people they are today. I hope the people I loved as a child have been loved into a little better shape (in part) because of me. I hope it made a difference, even if it ended.
Maybe I'm too nostalgic, a little too sentimental, but I refuse to believe that childhood friendships don't mean anything. We laid in the grass and watched the clouds, talking about God and life too many times for me to believe it didn't form a part of me—and maybe it did them, too.
