What happened?

Homeboy!

I should tell you something.

I grew the most with you.

Hiding behind the trees to smoke weed. The day we skipped—looked right at each other and shrugged like, fuck it—went back to the house, smoked, played and watched the same shit all day.

All. Day. All day all day.

That’s my favorite childhood memory. That shit was what freedom felt like.

Might still be the best day of my life.

I read about what happened. Detail came over time, somehow making it more understandable and also worse.

I can see that you must have felt surrounded; probably in survival. But still, man.

You did that shit to TWO people.

I feel like a normal person would ask, how could you? But I was there when we were kids. I know how he was. How he hurt you. How you weren’t allowed to cry.

I remember you running to my house in shambles one night—he was tearing the place apart.

Actually, it just registered. You came running to my house. It must have felt safest there. Is that because it was the nicest, or was it something about me?

Because the latter is ironic, considering all the tension between us early on. Yo, we couldn’t stand each other. I didn’t want anything to do with you.

You were my first fight, and we gotta admit: I beat that ass. You didn’t come out the house for two weeks.

I know you didn’t think I had it in me.

I thought about that today. I can say I won a fight with someone who went to maximum security prison for a violent offense.

I don’t know how to feel about that. It’s not like I’m a professional fighter and can use that to prove I’m a badass.

It scares me a little bit. I am most definitely afraid of prison. I don’t think I would do well in there.

But like, how did I win that fight? Bloody you up?

You did some psycho shit and got put away for it. I’ve been out here living free the whole time.

What does that say about me? What does all of this say about me?

You taught me how to carry a piece around. I got rid of mine; you clearly kept yours.

You weren’t playing around. You were not playing around.

I saw when you got out. Said it was like stepping into a new world.

I can’t even imagine, man. How much you have to adjust. How foreign things must seem.

I thought about writing to you. I want to offer you support. Tell you, if you want to talk about what happened, what got you there or what it was like—I’m here.

But here’s the thing.

I wanted to write to you before it all, too. We ended up in places close enough to visit. And I was lonely. Really lonely. It would have been great to get back with one of the homies.

That’s like fate.

There were these dreams, though. Of getting into trouble with you. Or not with you, by you. You doing some shit; me screaming: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?

Because you weren’t just fucking yourself, you were dragging us down too.

So I stayed away, and then you did it, and I felt justified.

That means I can’t open the door. Maybe you’ve changed, or maybe it’s still in there, waiting to come out again.

I can’t take that chance; I’ve worked too hard and come too far. You were there.

I see you have someone now. Wholesome, wanting to take care of you. Your kids love you, even through all those years of distance.

That’s something! That’s the deep shit.

I hope you are getting all the tenderness you missed as a kid—when you need it most.

Love you. Always.