“And you'll write back?”
“Every week.”
She laughed.
“You hate writing.”
“I'll learn.”
She leaned against me.
For a while, we sat together.
Then she took a small blue ribbon from her pocket.
It was tied around a little wooden charm she'd painted.
The charm looked like a crooked rose.
She placed it in my hand.
“For you.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“So you don't forget me.”
I looked toward her.
“Mara.”
She smiled sadly.
“Just take it.”
I closed my fingers around the charm.
Then looked toward the old oak tree.
I wanted to give her something.
Something important.
But I had no money.
No jewelry.
Nothing except the objects in my pockets.
Then I remembered a small brass key my grandmother had given me.
It belonged to an old wooden box in her attic.
The box wasn't valuable.
It held postcards, ribbons, and forgotten trinkets.
But Grandma had told me it once belonged to my great-grandfather.
I removed the key from my pocket.
Mara stared.
“What's that?”
“A key.”
“I can see that.”
I smiled.
“Then why'd you ask?”
She laughed.
I placed it in her palm.
“It opens Grandma's old treasure box.”
Her eyes widened.
“A real treasure box?”
“Sort of.”
She examined the brass key.
Then looked toward me.
“What if I lose it?”
“You won't.”
She smiled.
Then tied it to a ribbon around her neck.
I watched her.
For a moment, I wanted to say something.
Something much larger than friendship.
But I was twelve.
I didn't have the words.
So I said the closest thing I could manage.
“Come back someday.”
She nodded.
“I will.”
And I believed her.
The next morning, the neighboring driveway was empty.