Childhood Ghost

A forgotten childhood friend.

It was an all-inclusive resort in Cancún, one week in the middle of childhood. Everything felt unreal back then — the sun, the ocean, the freedom of being somewhere far from home, and the idea that ice cream could be taken without permission and without limit.

I met Brett on the second day. He lived in Guelph, I lived in New Liskeard, and we were young enough that distances didn’t mean anything yet. We spent the days sneaking to the ice cream bar like it was a heist. Every trip got more ridiculous — two cones, three cones, bowls stacked on bowls. We’d waddle to the shallow pool afterward, stuffed full of sugar, talking about Pokémon, Yu-Gi-Oh, and Beyblades like they were philosophy.

It was one of the best weeks I can remember.

But near the end, something dark settled in. A feeling I wouldn’t learn to name until years later.

Terror.

Not the kind that comes from danger — the kind that comes from knowing something good is about to end. Childhood teaches you joy first and endings second, and endings always arrive too soon.

I told myself Brett and I would phone each other. That we’d visit. That we’d stay friends.

But even then, even as a kid, I knew better.

When I got home, I called him once. We talked for a few minutes. I was awkward. I was sad. And that was the last time I ever heard his voice.

I never spoke to Brett again.

But I remember him.

I don’t forget things like that.

-Space Cowboy

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