Never Lego

I remember when you were new in town and my mother invited your family over for dinner; you were four. My mom made me share my toys with you while we waited for the food to get done. I complained that I didn't want to share my toys with "this baby", but she forced me to play with you. It turned out to be really fun, even though you're two years younger than me, I always looked forward to hanging out with you. My "friends" made fun of me for hanging out with "a little baby." But I didn't care. I remember all of the times we spent hours playing with the Legos in my room. I remember we almost completed building our Lego town, but my mom said we were making a big mess and made us take it down and put the blocks away. I also remember playing with my dinosaurs. You'd always try to take the green dinosaur and I always had to remind you that the green one was mine. My father gave it to me and it was really special to me (I lost it when you left.) I remember when you first learned how to ride a bike. You were so happy to be able to ride around town with me, but you always complained and said I was going to fast. You were just slow. And when I started riding without my training wheels, you were ready to get rid of yours. I remember you fell off a lot and you were so frustrated you started to cry. But I finally taught you how. You were so excited. I enjoyed seeing a smile in your face. I remember everything we've done together, but I remember most is when you left me. I remember it clearly: waking you at 7am in a Saturday morning, hopping down the stairs two at a time and running into the kitchen to beg my mom to call your mom and ask her if it was okay for you to come over so we could watch Saturday morning cartoons together. She gave me a sad smile and told me you weren't at home. I gave her a confused look and asked her to ask your mom if you could come over later. Then she let out a sigh and sat me down to tell me you were gone. You moved away. I just stared at her for a second, not believing her, so I ran all the way to your house to see for myself. She was right. You were gone. You left me. I went to our secret hideout: the broken down tree house in the back of that abandoned house (just in case you forgot.) I sat there with my knees pulled up to my chest and cried. You made me cry. And that's not something I'd normally confess to you, because I'm older. I finally made my way back home, because I knew my mom was probably getting worried. She was. She yelled at me when I made it home. When you left I spent most days up in my room staring at the light blue walls. I cut off all contact with everyone and just stayed up in my room when I wasn't at school or forced to to to church. You took away my happiness when you left. You didn't say goodbye. You just left me. And it hurt. It still hurts.