And had an extraordinary talent for turning ordinary objects into things that seemed important.
A crooked branch became a walking stick for an imaginary explorer.
A broken flowerpot became a home for insects.
An empty tin became a treasure chest.
The following day, she found me sitting on Grandma's porch steps and announced that she needed an assistant.
I asked what kind.
She said an artistic one.
I told her I didn't know anything about art.
She said that was obvious.
Then handed me a paintbrush.
Within an hour, we had painted a wooden birdhouse green, blue, and yellow.
My grandmother stared at it when we finished.
“Good heavens.”
Mara smiled proudly.
“Do you like it?”
Grandma examined the uneven colors.
Then nodded.
“It's certainly impossible to miss.”
Mara laughed.
I laughed.
And from that day forward, we were nearly inseparable.
We spent afternoons riding bicycles through quiet streets.
We built a secret hideout beneath the old apple tree behind Mara's house.
We collected smooth stones from the creek.
We made paper boats.
And whenever the summer sun became too hot, Grandma Nora brought lemonade onto the porch and pretended not to notice that we had eaten half the cookies before lunch.
Mara's father worked as a carpenter and part-time auto electrician.
He owned an old blue Camaro that he was always repairing.
Sometimes he allowed me to hand him tools while he worked.
I loved watching him.
He explained electrical systems with the same patience my grandfather used when describing engines.
Mara usually sat nearby painting or reading.
One afternoon, she asked her father why he liked fixing things.
He looked toward the Camaro.
“Because somebody put work into making them.”
She frowned.
“So?”
He smiled.
“Then they deserve a chance to keep working.”
Mara looked toward me.
“My Caleb likes fixing things too.”
I nearly dropped the wrench.
“Your Caleb?”
She turned bright red.
Elliot laughed.
Mara threw a rag at him.
“Daddy!”
He ducked.
I grinned.
“Your Caleb?”
“Shut up.”
I laughed harder.
She refused to speak to me for nearly six minutes.
Then asked whether I wanted to help paint the birdhouse again.
That was Mara.
Angry for a moment.
Curious the next.
And somehow always ready to begin again.
Our friendship became the center of that summer.
But it also became something I didn't understand well enough to name.
I liked hearing her laugh.
I liked when she sat close beside me.