The western sky is reddening when you arrive. Dozens of birds fly away, surprised by your coming.
You stand still for a moment, and then sit at your favorite place, from where you can watch the sun sinking, the reflection of its golden light dancing on the clear lake surface.
You used to hate the soaring hill across the lake, because it blocked your view, preventing you from following the movement of the sun. But now you've come to understand that without the hill, this would have not been the place you knew.
How you used to love the crimson sky, but now, every time you see it, your heart cries. You miss those times so much, those very precious times that you know you can never get back.
You stare blankly ahead. All you see are the pictures of the past, appearing one after another in your mind. You laugh, recalling the first time you met Erik. You were here, all alone as usual, the people you called "friend" again having abandoned you. You were on the verge of weeping when he showed up out of nowhere. He was about 15, same as you, and was apparently a newcomer to the neighborhood. You had never seen him before. He had sandy hair and light blue eyes, which were so cheerful and frank, like nothing you had never seen before.
He seemed mischievous, fearless. He knew nothing of you but was eager to make you talk. At the time you were too angry to reply, thinking: "Who the hell is he? He doesn't even know me, how dare he tease me!" So instead you gave him a scornful look. But even your most indifferent look failed to discourage him. He just kept teasing you, and in the end broke you down. You shouted at him, telling him to go away; when he did not go, you decided to leave.
Your gaze moves over the glittering surface of the lake. You smile, remembering how you later became so close to him. He was so very cheerful, enthusiastic about so many things. You never saw him sad or burdened. He liked telling you stories. He told you about his favorite books, movies and music; about distant places he had visited or wanted to visit, about great people, about his dreams, all sorts of things. Yet he was a good listener too. He always seemed interested in everything you said, prompting you to talk longer and more often than you ever had before. His lively, earnest nature shone a light into your gloomy heart. His laughter and chatter stirred life in your inert soul. He was the best thing that ever happened to you.
You take a deep breath, staring at the yellow, knee-high grass brushing your legs, and then at the marble-sized pieces of gravel nearby. You reach out and pick up some pebbles and head down to the lake shore, where you throw the pebbles, one by one, into the water, a game you often played with Erik. He never got bored of challenging you to defeat him, saying that just because you're a girl didn't mean you couldn't throw pebbles better than him. "See, you're getting better," he'd always say, though you never did defeat him. Erik could throw so far. It wasn't just his muscle, it was his way of skipping the stones across the surface. He taught you how to do it, but you never really paid attention because you considered it unimportant.
That was seven years ago. Now you're taller, your arms are longer, you are stronger. And you do remember the technique.
You grip the last pebble in your palm, fix your eyes on the middle of the lake, bend your knees, flick your wrist and send the stone skipping across the water.
It skips three, four times before sinking below the surface. You cheer up at your magnificent throw. Erik could never beat that. You laugh, your eyes sparkling. In your heart you say, "Look, Erik! Look! Check out that throw! See? I can beat you easily now."
Then you feel the evening breeze on your face, on your neck, ruffling your long dark hair, making you shiver. The wind moves on but it has stirred a memory you wish to forget: Erik was talking to his mother in their kitchen, a conversation you accidentally overheard when you were about to enter the open back door.
"No way, Mom! I don't want to go to the hospital," Erik was yelling. "You can't make me! I won't stay there!"
"But, honey, we must give it a try. Don't speak like that; we should never give up," Erik's mother replied. She was a widow, beautiful and still young, who always looked sad. There was a tremble in her voice as she spoke, and you thought you heard her sobbing faintly.
"But, Mom, it's useless..." Erik said more softly. "You know it will be useless; I will never get cured. Whatever they do, Mom, forcing me to take all that medicine, all those needles, and taking my blood over and over for the stupid tests. you know in the end I'm gonna die anyway. That's what the doctors said."
Erik's mother wept then, while you . you just felt stunned.
What was this about hospitals and medicine and blood tests? About dying? Erik couldn't be dying; that's nonsense. He looks so healthy. What kind of stupid disease could he have? It couldn't be; it just couldn't be. You stood silently behind the door, your brain rejecting what you had just heard, your heart telling you it was true. Tears began rolling down your cheeks. You heard Erik and his mother resume their conversation, but you could not eavesdrop any longer. You turned and stepped down the stairs; that was when Erik saw you and called out.
You ignored him, just ran fast, you didn't care where. Eric ran after you, calling out to stop, saying that you'd misunderstood. But you knew he was trying to lie.
The sky is getting dark now. You remember the last time Erik brought you here. It was nightfall, like now, and your arrival disturbed the birds.
He chattered, cracking jokes and telling stories as usual, as if nothing was going on. He didn't seem to care that you said nothing, but after half an hour, he finally spoke out.
"Yes, I'm sick," he said. "I'm not as strong as you thought. I'm sick; very very sick and weak. Pathetic, aren't I?"
He didn't wait for a reply before adding, "But, well. can we just forget that? Can we just pretend that there's nothing wrong, that everything is business as usual? Have you ever heard that people will feel sick if they think they are? That's why I don*t want to think about it or be reminded that I'm sick."
He stepped away, toward the lake, and stared at the water for a moment or two. Then he took a deep breath and looked brightly around him - at the hill, at the wood, at the darkening sky. He closed his eyes to feel the evening breeze on his skin.
Then he picked up some pebbles and began to throw them into the lake.
"I've always told you I want to be a great architect. But I haven't told you, have I, about my biggest dream project? I want to build these skyscrapers. Not just one - three connected towers, all with the same height and shape. And they will be the tallest buildings on earth, with a triangle bridge connecting each tower."
He went on, describing his dream details in intimate detail, not caring whether you were listening.
"I have had that dream since I was little, along with my dream to have adventurous travels around the world, to see new places and people," he said at the end. "But since I met you, they have changed a little, my dreams. Now I want to build the towers and do all the adventures with you at my side."
He smiled, and looked at you affectionately.
You can't hold back the warm tears now as you remember visiting Erik at the hospital. It was the last time you saw his smiling face. He looked so pale and so weak, but still he smiled. He weakly lifted his hand and brushed away your tears as he said, a tremble in his voice, "Hey, relax . I'll be all right."
You lift your head and stare straight at the western horizon. The sun has gone now. There is no more of its golden light on the lake surface, or beautiful red tints in the sky.
You can't hold back those loads of tears any longer. Erik has gone. Seven years ago, the cancer took him. Seven years, but you cannot forget him. Seven years, but still you cry and cry, and lose yourself in your sorrow.
Duane, don't you know how pathetic you are? When will you stop this? Sure, the sun sets, but can't you see what replaces it? The stars. There are hundreds of them. No, thousands, millions. Look at how enchanting they are. If you just look up at the sky and see how they sparkle in the dark of the night, you would find that one star, the brightest star of all. I'm sure, Duane, if the star were Erik, he must be trying to say this to you, "Shine, Duane, as I do. And one day show people all your dreams can come true."
Duane, I want to be your best friend. To stay by your side through the joy and the pain, and cheer you up the way Erik used to do. But, well . what can I do? I can perhaps just hang around and feel your sorrow, but you can't even hear me; I am just an inanimate object. I am just the blue ring that you've been wearing on your right ring finger.
