My First Best Friend

You were five
on my ninth birthday —


a green Snoopy shirt stretched across your chest,


grinning like you knew
you were the best gift in the room.



No petals were tossed

on our aunt’s wedding day,


just your hand in mine,


tight and a little sweaty
as we walked the aisle together.

We didn’t have a neighborhood crew,


just you and me
and a whole country of carpet,


Hot Wheels cities
sprawled out under our knees.


Tracks looped high,


gravity defied
by bright plastic and

the occasional bedtime resistance.

We learned to love cars
because Dad did.


NASCAR on Sundays,
volume low
but reverent.


I didn’t always know the rules —
still don’t —


but I understood speed.
And so did you.

Our parents were the same
on paper —


same names,
same house —


but not the same people
for each of us.


They were older
when they met you,


more tired,
maybe softer.


We were raised
by two different shades of the same tree.

And still —


you were my first best friend.

Now we are grown,


living in different states,


text threads stretched thin


between jobs,
children,
groceries.


But I see you clearly:


a good man,
a gentle father,
a patient son.

And always,


my little brother
in the green shirt,


still riding shotgun
through the golden laps
of memory.


The checkered flag doesn’t end the race —


it just marks
that we’ve made it
this far.