I just turned sixteen. She is holding the cake, I am blowing the candles. I make a wish, it later comes true.
Over years, we have built an entire world around dreams, little Terabithia of our own. Such strictly professional alliance started in sixth grade when no one else at school would share the desire to spend hours discussing something that could never happen. But we would mull over every tiny detail of the perfect life we were to have.
It is crucial to say, that our dreams all contained one-way ticket, packing three huge luggage pieces, in them: clothes, pictures in frames, and a few kilograms of buckwheat and Russian candy; then getting on a plane that would land in Los Angeles, California in twelve hours forty five minutes. It would be morning in America and we would have an entire day to ourselves. After that the stories varied.
And here we are, cutting ice-cold chocolate cake, and loudly congratulating me on my sweet sixteen.
Couple weeks pass, and we are in the airport with one-way ticket, three huge luggage pieces, in them: clothes, pictures without frames, and a few kilograms of buckwheat (no Russian candy). But by the green corridor she waves at me and I appear to be farther and farther from her and ultimately beyond my capacity to distinguish familiar figure. Then my plane lands in Tel-Aviv in four hours fifteen minutes and, needless to say, my wish came true. It indeed came true, yet in some twisted, satirical, snide even way. I call her, I send her letters.
I just turned eighteen. She is holding the watermelon (we either became creative or merely ashamed of our form), I am blowing the candles. I make a wish and hope it does not come true.
But it does. One-way ticket, three huge pieces of luggage, buckwheat, Vienna in two hours fifty five minutes for her, Amsterdam in three hours forty minutes for me. She calls me, she sends me letters.
I have deepest disgust and anguish in my heart for distance between me and my dearest friend. But besides that, I have fierce passion for letters.