Laura

I remember having an elective art course where I sat with Laura Meade cracking jokes and hoping she would love me and take me away from the torments of my seventh-grade hell. She was a grade older, and I called almost every other night that summer. Eventually, she started high school, and I was, like, a million miles away. We reconnected the next summer over some weed and a beedie cigarette. She had gone full punk hardcore. I was still in that bizarre hippy punk Nevada City mode. By my freshmen year, we were acquainted but distant. I went through a weird phase of biting people I adored. I was deluded into thinking it was cute somehow. The Friday before Christmas break, I gave Laura a big hug and gave her an Apple sized bite on her arm through her leather jacket. She punched me and told me I was a jerk. I was crushed. I meant to apologize. I thought about it all that break, and the Monday after the break, I was ready to apologize thoroughly. My friend Sierra Steine was talking about someone having died over Christmas break. It turned out it was Laura Meade. It was the second time in my life someone close to me had died. I'd never quite figured out how to sort all that. Twenty-one years later, I've learned to ask if someone wants to bit and how hard. I've learned to say I love you, I'm sorry and goodbye.