We call a person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower a man who has lost his wife. But the person who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call them? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in hopelessness. Losing a friend is just as hard as losing a family member. Chris was my best friend, my life, and my soul mate. When I lost him I felt so many emotions I could hardly express myself. I separated myself from anything that tried to make me feel better. It took me a trip back to childhood memories, a park I once shared with my best friend, to show me that its alright to live again. Not only to live but to remember the past and embrace it.
Grand River park usually took about ten minutes to reach, but Erin's lack of intelligence made the drive twice as long. Carpeted with green grass, and a touch of blacktop, the park looked the same. I remembered the swing set, with its old rusted chains attached to the plastic rectangular seats. The unforgettable basketball court taunted me with its emptiness. I used to watch Chris play while I glided through the air on the swings or hung upside down on the monkey bars. Always two steps ahead of everyone and never missing a shot Chris always amazed his crowd with his unbelievable talent. He towered over me at 6"3, and lit up a room every time he walked in with his sparkling blue eyes. Chris made our days at the park quite enjoyable and adventurous. Unfortunately, Chris got leukemia, ending his short-lived life. After Chris's unexpected death, that park including the adventures disappeared from existence. Never again did I want to set foot on its field and think about Chris.
Finally, we pulled into Grand River's parking lot. The pavement looked as though someone took an ice pick and hacked it to pieces. The white lines that confined the cars had faded and almost appeared invisible.