“I’ll beat you to the top of the mountain!”

Sarah was always so confident that she’d beat me to the top of the huge hill we had in the back of my yard. I always knew she was faster, but each time I would scream back, “No, you won’t! I’m faster than you!” Of course, every time, she’d be laughing on top of the hill, watching me as I was just reaching the top, several feet behind her, panting like a dog. 

“I told you, Kenzie! I’m the fastest of all the seven-year-olds. I’m the fastest in the whole world!” 

We’d roll down the hill together every time, and then we’d go inside for hot chocolate in the winter and lemonade in the summer. We’d play dress-up. Every time, Sarah as Batman, me as the Joker. She’d chase me around, and, as expected, catch me. We’d laugh and giggle until our stomachs ached. It was always that way. It never changed. 

Time passed, though. 

No more “mountains”.

No more lemonade.

No more dress-up.

All I get is the occasional head nod, as if I never knew her; as if we hadn’t made unforgettable memories. We were now strangers.