Pieces of Me, by Angela Carlton

When my mother left this world, you were here. You were here, the boy a few doors down, the one I used to chase in the yard, and play hopscotch with. As a preteen, I still chased you, my heart would stop when you entered a room. Later, you bought me chocolates and took me to sexy movies. We would ride on the dirtbike down dusty roads and watch the fat, puffy clouds roll by.
Sometimes we would dance in my basement to the stereo even though you didn’t have a lick of rhythm but I didn’t care. You made me giggle as no one could. My mother was usually in “serious mode” fretting over some loser guy. She was still bitter that my father had walked out on us when I was little. When she passed away, there was word that she had been drinking the night her car smashed into a wall.
Now I must go. I must leave all the heavy, sticky memories of my mother behind, and live with a distant aunt in New York, a place where the heartbeat of the city is loud-loud. It makes me want to cover my ears. People take cabs and won’t drive so I will remember you and me, on those curvy roads with the roar of the motorbike that usually matched our laughter. This is what I will cling to. I will write you every week, keep my thoughts about you in a diary until I can return.

Yes, one day I shall return, and pick up any pieces of me that are left. I will search, search-search until I find you.