Friends, Now and Then

Winner – Marjorie Flack Creative Writing Award

The clearing in the woods behind Sam’s house always felt magical to me as a young girl. It was the setting of endless adventures for me and my friends, and there was always something new and exciting to be discovered. And nothing was more exciting then the afternoon in the clearing during which our seven-year-old selves thought we were millionaires. 

As soon as Rowan found the thick black liquid oozing out of the nettle patch, we were convinced it was oil. I had just read a book about someone who struck it rich discovering oil in Texas, and despite the fact that we lived in Maryland, we were certain that stacks of cash lay in our future. We immediately started to list all the ways we could spend the money. 

Our first idea was to build a huge treehouse right there in the clearing. That, of course, was Sam’s idea. He was always thinking of ways to make our secret spot even more amazing. Nicole suggested college funds. She was more practical than the rest of us; for most of us, at our age, the treehouse was much more appealing. Out of a vague sense of duty as the oldest and wisest in the group, I halfheartedly suggested new books, but that idea, and all the others, were forgotten when Hal suddenly shouted “Cookies!” 

It was unanimous. We would spend our oil riches on delicious cookies.

Sam started planning how we would collect our black gold. He had just assigned me and Rowan to get buckets to hold the oil when Hal had an inspiration. 

“Why don’t we get cookies now?” he suggested. “We could ask our moms for a snack and then get to work on the oil.”

Plans were changed and we headed back to the house. We really did mean to come back, but other things happened and I guess we forgot all about it.

I stand at the edge of that clearing in the woods and I smile. Sam has made lots of improvements to his parent’s place over the years, but the clearing is one thing he hasn’t changed. The trees are older, but otherwise the place looks exactly the same. Just a little smaller.

The pile of quartz crystals we collected during a game of treasure hunters still sits in the little hole at the base of the gnarled oak tree. Hal’s tribal paintings, done in neon acrylic, adorn the base of the huge stone that served as Chief Sam’s throne. The sandy floor of the clearing is untouched and clear, as if Nicole has just swept it clean to use as her blackboard for a school game. In the pine tree beside me, Rowan’s secret place, which seemed so high and dangerous to us, is at my head height. I trace my hand over the tree branch he used to sit on, remembering how he would watch us from above like a silent guardian angel. Sometimes he would sit up there for hours, but the moment he wanted to join in, he would drop down like a cat, always landing on his feet.

Behind me I can still hear the sounds of the others laughing and talking around the firepit. The sound of Hal’s voice tells me that he’s regaling the others with some hilarious story from his day. Nicole is laughing so hard that she’s snorting. 

I’ll return to them soon. But I need a moment to stand here, to feel the place again.

As I step into the clearing, my foot hits something hidden in the undergrowth. I brush aside the nettles and laugh out loud. Laying on its side, rusty orange except for the dried black puddle at the bottom, is what can only be a two-decades old can of paint. The metal lid, lying beside it, pronounces the color in a scrawl of faded permanent marker: 

#5, Oil Black.

Quiet footsteps sound on the dirt path behind me. 

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

I turn to see my husband with a smile on his face. Taking his hand, I ask contentedly:

“Rowan?”

His kind, dark eyes reflect the lights Sam’s wife strung up around the distant firepit.

“Yeah?” 

I gesture towards the can of paint. 

“What would you have used the money for?”