And an art studio.
And a house with enough bedrooms for everyone we loved.
Mara said she would paint the walls blue.
I told her I'd paint them white so they would look normal.
She said white was boring.
I said blue was ridiculous.
Then she laughed and told me we could paint half the walls each.
That solution pleased us both.
Neither of us understood that twenty-four years later, we would meet again beside an actual garage.
Or that those childish plans would return with a force neither of us could easily resist.
The last week of that summer was different.
I remembered the change now.
Mara's mother had become weaker.
Her father received frequent phone calls.
Strangers began arriving at the house.
Sometimes Mara was sent outside while adults spoke in the kitchen.
She tried to pretend everything was fine.
But she stopped laughing as much.
One afternoon, she told me her family might move.
I stared.
“Where?”
She shrugged.
“Indianapolis. Maybe somewhere else.”
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
I felt an immediate panic.
“But you live here.”
She looked toward the house.
“Daddy says he might find better work somewhere else.”
I shook my head.
“You can't move.”
Mara's expression tightened.
“It's not my decision.”
For a moment, I was angry at her.
Not because she had done anything wrong.
Because I didn't know where else to put the fear.
I kicked a small stone into the grass.
“Then tell him you don't want to go.”
She stared.
“I did.”
“Tell him again.”
Her eyes filled.
“Caleb, stop.”
I looked away.
We sat in miserable silence.
Then she whispered, “I don't want to leave you.”
I turned.
Her cheeks were wet.
My anger vanished.
I moved closer.
“Then we'll write.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“Letters.”
She sniffled.
I continued.
“Grandma gets mail every day. You can write to her house. She'll give it to me.”
Mara considered that.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She smiled weakly.