Remembering Sunday

Seth Thompson and I had been best friends since our young adventures in kindergarten at Jackson Elementary School. We weren't off to a good start at first when he stuck a paintbrush, dripping with bright, lime green paint, into my short, brunette locks. We'd been painting at the easels, his right next to mine, and before I knew what was happening, I felt something icy and bristly against my scalp. I had turned to see that Seth had completely missed his easel and landed his paintbrush in my hair. His only response to that acclaimed "mistake" was a quiet and bashful "Sorry." That day, it seemed the tears were never going to stop rolling off my cheeks even when the paint came all out without the need of a haircut. My indignant five-year-old ways had told me to seek revenge on Seth; maybe swipe his shoes and hide them in a part of the room no one dared to check. However, those plans had been easily foiled when a week later, when Seth offered me his chocolate chip cookie, fresh from the oven the day our teacher had decided would be a good day to bake.

"I sorry about the paint," he had said in the same soft voice, his cheeks flushed vermilion.

I'd been sitting at the table in the corner, coloring, when he appeared at my side. At first I just blinked in confusion, not knowing what to say. His hand was extended out to me with the cookie, his dark blue eyes deep with how truly sorry he was.

"Is kay," I had replied, and I graciously accepted the offer. Seth had begun to walk away, and at that moment I had gotten my first taste of real guilt. A kindergartner without a cookie was something that could send them home crying, even if it had been a peace offering.

"Ay, wait," I called, and Seth spun around to look at me. I broke the cookie in half, handing him the bigger piece. Seth was dumbfounded, but he accepted it. From that moment on, we were tight.