Closer

It was the silence and the stillness that had always been a bother. Humans by nature prefer to live in groups. At one time it was for survival, but for most it had become a psychological need as we evolved into more complex animals. Silence then means loneliness to some or at certain times, and much of that school year I had felt very alone. I suppose now that it was my own doing, but they say hindsight is always 20/20.

To remedy this, I often would simply turn the television on. Sound helped melt away the choking solitude, even if it was an artificial substitute for companionship. O this particular day, our house was still with no way to fix it. In preparation for the change of moving, painters had covered our walls in a new shade, helping erase the mark we left on the house. The TV was unplugged and stored under a plastic sheet. My portable CD player had died the day previous, and my mom and brother were out for some errands. This time I truly was alone.

As a last escape, I turned to my science textbook, more specifically to the chapter on human reproduction in females. Quickly this disinterested me, and in frustration I closed it instead stare at the ceiling. The feeling was so oppressive it was almost too much to stand. WIth my arm over my eyes, I tried to slip away from it all then.

An eternity of a few minutes passed in this fashion when suddenly a knock came at the door. Startled, I sat up and went to see who could have pierced that silence. Standing there with his scooter and a joke about the red mark on my forehead was Wyatt. He came to hang out, but without meaning to, he saved me from that moment. Instantly the oppression was gone, and we went out to play like the kids we still were. As we scootered to the park, the wind felt relieving, and the speed was freeing. I never told him that day, and I probably never will about my gratitude. We were never as close as he and Jon or me and Jon, but we were friends, no matter how imperfect. That was all I needed that day, and that friendship is what we have now five years later. It has survived longer than that silence, and it is what matters most.