What We Used To Be

Frozen in fear, I don't answer. Instead, I stare blankly as she smiles and places both her hands on her hips. "Don’t you recognize me?"

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The question sends me into a frenzy, trying to confirm whether I truly don’t know her. She clearly knows me.

Slowly, she raises an eyebrow and tilts her head slightly. "You don’t remember what we were?" Hurt flickers in her eyes, and I can’t bear to watch as disappointment clouds her expression. Something about the arrows and her coming through the window stirs a memory, but I can't quite place it, so I look down, saying nothing.

Dropping her hands to her sides, she forces a weak smile. "It’s Nnena. Nnena Okafor. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I couldn't find you."

The name strikes something in my mind, and the gates holding back the memories burst open. She was my best friend before we lost contact after my first year at university. I try to understand why it took so long to recognize her.

I remember that Sunday morning, skating with a few girls from my soccer team, not far from campus. We turned a corner, and the car came out of nowhere. It slammed into my legs, knocking me to the ground. My head hit the road first, blood pooling on the hot pavement until the ambulance arrived, sirens blaring. The pain in the back of my head was unbearable. I passed out.

When I finally woke up, I was in an ICU bed, an IV in my arm, and a heart rate monitor beeping next to me. A nurse appeared, telling me I had a Traumatic Brain Injury and would need surgery. I couldn't process it. TBI? Surgery? Her voice was distant as she pushed paperwork towards me. I absentmindedly took the pen and signed at the indicated line.

They wheeled me into another room, painted in blue, where surgeons wore matching scrubs and gloves. A different nurse came up, tapping a needle. She pushed it into my arm, and the room spun. Slowly, I blacked out again.

After a few more days of bland crackers and tasteless meals, I was discharged. My mom mentioned a friend from high school who had come to visit. She never elaborated, and I never asked. I didn’t have many friends in high school, so it must have been Nnena.

We used to roast marshmallows in her backyard, around her firepit. The arrows were her signal that she was dropping into the treehouse. Usually, it was just to chat or go over test results, but occasionally, she'd come down to explore my yard.

In a soft, nostalgic whisper, I answer, “I remember now.”

Her grin is bright, and she offers me her hand again. This time, I take it and pull her to the corner where I’ve stretched out my legs, finally relaxed.

“I’ve gotten better at swinging in here, you know. They taught me,” she says proudly, puffing out her chest. I don’t understand what she means.

"Who?" I ask, but she just smiles as though she holds a secret.

I pull her into my lap, and she giggles, just like she did when we were little, when we promised to be best friends forever. She’s always fit perfectly in my lap, like the younger sister I never had but always needed.

"I remember us, Nnena," I say, holding her close to my chest. Now, I’m sure I’ll always remember this treehouse. I’ll always remember my best friend.

"I remember what we used to be."

HAPPY ST. VALENTINE