The Priory Lit. Mag

Drew grew up across the street from me and had been my constant childhood companion. I can vividly remember making the trek down my dirt driveway, past the meadows and the lily ponds, across the unkempt, pothole-ridden road to the base of the neighboring hill that was encompassed by a line of rusty mailboxes, all shooting up from the ground slightly askew. And in between the reddish 2307, which was shaped more like a crumpled piece of paper than a box, and the grey-black of 2306 was my stick. The stick that I would lovingly use to whack the only out of place mailbox, his mailbox, number 2248, to signal that he should come out to play. And out he would come. His hair was tousled, the dirty blond locks flying in all different directions, protruding slightly more in certain areas due to the various paraphernalia that was constantly trapped there. He had big brown eyes that matched the smattering of freckles on his face, which perfectly framed his bow lipped mouth that looked forever puckered. His overalls were always caked with mud but you hardly noticed all that for the way he would stand, walking around like he was ten feet tall, like there was a man hiding beneath his scrawny exterior. He was always trying to be just like his papa, the straw planted behind his ear (we weren’t rich enough to be able to plant any wheat), the cigarette box, the pride of his outfit, tucked lovingly into the fold of his sleeve, even though we both knew the box was empty.

The two of us would go everywhere together. We’d run down the main road, collecting the frogs that had wandered too far from the surrounding ponds, and we’d race them, but Drew always cheated, throwing his down the road when I wasn’t looking and then claiming that his frogs just had mighty strong legs. We’d make the long trip into town every once in a while, when one of us had saved up enough money to buy something nice, like a candy bar. On those days we spent what felt like eternity sitting on the little bench out front of the convenience store, divvying it up as evenly as we could, licking our fingers and checking our pants folds to make sure that no crumb escaped.

The two of us were like mashed potatoes and gravy, I always thought. We went well together, we got along. But he was the mashed potatoes. He could be delicious all by himself whereas no one liked just plain gravy. Or at least, that’s how I felt. I’d follow him everywhere. Together we would scamper over the rocks by the creak behind my house, scaling the stones until we got to the foot of the woods. There was a large oak that twisted its way out from all the undergrowth and at the base, to the left, was a social trail in the bushes that must have been left by deer or something.

Anyways, we’d follow this trail up another hill and sitting just atop that was a big old oak that dwarfed that one at the start of the path. It leaned heavily towards the right, sagging under the weight of its branches, one of which hung so low and had drooped so much that the tree seemed to lean on it for support. We called it the Old Man tree and it was ours. There we talked about our secrets, our hopes and dreams. The two often overlapped. He confessed that he didn’t wanna stay in this town forever, that he wanted to make something of himself. He was going to be an inventor, a tinkerer just like his daddy. He was going to make it big. And I, I wanted to be a mother. But a good one, not like mine who was constantly in her room with the curtains closed due to migraines. I was gonna be a good wife, a good mother. One who cooked delicious food for her kids and helped them with their homework. I wanted to be in love. I wanted someone to rush home to me every day. I wanted their day to turn around when they saw me. I wanted someone to love me back.

But one day, when I went down my driveway, ran across the road and started beating that box, no one came. I sat there whacking and beating and hollering, squinting to see any sign of those blonde curls but they never came. So I went up the slope leading to his house and ran right around the corner and up his front porch steps to start banging on his door. But when I got there, something was different. Now Drew had four brothers and sisters, all younger than him, so usually the house was pretty wild, which I thought was so cool. But now, the house was quiet. It was still as if no one had lived in if for years. The windows had the shades drawn down tight and the pickup truck was absent from its customary spot out front. Foolishly thinking that maybe they had gone to town for the day, I scampered down the hill to sit patiently at the base of their driveway. I sat and sat and sat. I played games to pass the time, seeing how still I could keep, or hollering at the top of my lungs, sending all the rodents scurrying into the underbrush. I must have fallen asleep because before I knew it I was being lifted, padded between my daddy’s arms, and carried home. Exhausted from my waiting, I lost all the fight left in me and cried. I buried my head in his shoulder and let the sobs course through me, wrenching through my chest, snagging in my throat. Drew was gone. He had left and he had taken my heart with him.