Vicky

Vicky

Vicky and I met when we were two-years-old. We instantly developed a bond. For the next sixteen years, we were inseparable. We did everything together, usually, while holding hands.

Our families sometimes vacationed together. These became some of my fondest memories. We would walk the trails and explore caves that we were sure we were the first to discover.

Eventually, Vicky and I went off to different colleges. We promised to keep in touch, but as often happens, we didn't follow through. I never saw Vicky again. I often tried to contact her. I even tried to look her up on Facebook, to no avail. I assumed she had married and was no longer Vicky Hutchison.

Three years ago, I sat next to Vicky's mother at my mother's funeral. She pulled a photograph from her purse and handed it to me. It was an old faded picture of Vicky and me, sitting on a porch, and sharing a bag of candy. It was taken on the day we had met.

I smiled and said, "Vicky and I were always close."

"I know you were," she said. "I thought you might want to have this."

"I do. Thank you. How is Vicky?"

She was taken aback. "I thought you knew. Vicky died a year after leaving for college."

I cried. For me, it had just happened.