Her name was one letter different from mine.
A reason to be friends.
We had so much in common after that, high pitched chatter, unstoppable giggles, scraped knees under frilly, second hand church dresses, that we unmercifully tore up as we raced and fell, and spun until we fell, and tripped on plastic fruit to fall again, this time against the fake kitchen we proudly cooked in.
We could be twins, we said, with our names. Our hair even was identical dark, practical bobs that our mothers ensured couldn’t reach our mouths. These mattered more than the different countries we came from, different languages we knew.
Maybe she was only there for a day, maybe months, maybe years. We called each other best friends forever.
Because when you’re four years old, an hour can be eternity.
To my first memory of a friend,