Wednesday, November 30, 2011

pondering Nancy and Babe

Nancy was my friend. At least, until she wasn’t.  

Nancy was fun, friendly, kind. We had a lot of fun together.   

Until the kids at the bus stop told me she smelled like urine. Turned out she did, due to a health problem of some kind, but I’d never noticed before. As we approached late elementary school, remaining friends with Nancy was social suicide.  So I just stopped.  I stopped being her friend.  I never once bullied her, but I’m sure what I did was worse.  I spit in the face of the years we’d spent carefree and happy. I acted like she didn’t exist. 

I cared about Nancy, she was a wonderful friend and I enjoyed her company … until someone told me I wasn’t supposed to, and I listened.  

Babe was a naïve little pig.  All he knew was that the sheepdog Fly had offered to be his mom, and he loved her.  Then Ma Sheep told him Fly was a wolf – vicious, cruel, and that Babe shouldn’t have anything to do with wolves.  Babe could hear Fly barking and worried Ma was right.  He spent that day in misery, second guessing his heart.  Then Fly came home, kissed him, and tiredly asked how his day had been.  Babe flew headlong into her love and swore to never think ill of any creature ever again.  Not Fly – Not Ma – Not Anyone.

Babe was right.
I was wrong.

We moved away the summer after my sixth grade year.  I have no idea what happened to Nancy.  I'd love to find out. And I'd love to apologize.

Never again.

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