We used to share a box of your forty-eight crayons, divided it by two boxes of twenty-four. I remember how you always colored grasslands with apple green, rivers with navy blue, mountains with forest green and skies with light blue very neatly, inside the black outlines of the drawings on the book.
Meanwhile, I struggled to keep the charcoal (or maybe, just gray) lines of my pencil away from making mistakes. I drew a vertical line, sky blue to sky blue, then made an angled line beside it, coming from the sky blue to the red, meeting at the vertical line earlier, until it goes back to sky blue below the point I started above. I envied you then, how you never fail to write the initial of your first name effortlessly.
Didn’t I tell you I loved scarlet? Or midnight blue, lemon yellow, tangerine? Didn’t I tell you I loved how there was another shade, another name other than red, blue, yellow, or orange. Didn’t I tell you I loved how out of all the other girls in the classroom, I was seated right beside you? Didn’t I tell you I loved your way of making puzzles, crosswords, even if we were just five? Didn’t I tell you how special you were when I gave you the first ochre French fries, a hamburger covered in flesh-and-white plastic, and an orange juice sweating on its silver back?
I remembered the last Christmas party when I shouted out loud your name, and held your hands for the first time, when we danced, when I saw you wearing wrinkling periwinkle skirt, and I on a red brick polo shirt, we danced along a line, as if we were enough to fit small-capped letters between us.
Didn’t I tell you I love you? Maybe you didn’t notice when I still have your white crayon when you graduated, when you left me.