My best friend in second grade was a little Korean boy named Michael. He was the cutest little thing you can imagine, and so incredibly sweet. No one else would talk to him, something I could never understand or figure out. He wasn't crazy like all the other little boys; he was quiet, gentle, kind. Way beyond his years.
One day, another friend asked me, "When is Michael moving?" I remember looking at her as if she'd grown a horn. I had no idea what she was talking about. I later found Michael on the playground and confronted him. He told me in a small voice that he and his family were moving to California. I began to yell at him-- words I don't remember now, probably nothing too graphic- this was second grade after all. But words that gave him a pained expression- a sad, fallen face that is etched into my visual memory for the rest of time. He said my name, "Savannah" as if to beg me to stop saying mean things, to understand, to calm down, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. This was my first broken heart, and I wasn't old enough to understand it, let alone deal with it.
Only a few days later, Michael was gone. We never officially said goodbye. I never saw or heard from him again. I regret that. I wish I would have calmed down that day. I wish we would have exchanged addresses and remained friends. I wish I could remember his last name so I could find him on Facebook (the best stalker tool around!). I wish a lot of things, but most of all, I wish I hadn't been so mean to him. And I hope that wherever he is, he is well, and has only happy memories of his second grade friend.
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