We were running. Running through glossy wet grass. Blades of grass stuck to our ankles like the glitter we sprinkled onto glue drizzled paper. Juliana slipped and her soft body glided across the manicured earth. I launched myself to the ground, wanting to feel the exhilarating pain of crashing into the grass like she had. We were kids and pain was never really painfully, but playful. We rolled back and forth, giggling, giggling when it didn’t give any implications of alternative motives. We were happy, simply, happy.

We would lay in her bed, with the golden afternoon light from the open window laundering our cool, damp skin like a lavender scented sheet on a clothesline. We had taken a bath in her parent’s bathtub. We were in there for the whole afternoon, dipping our dolls in the sweet-smelling water. Building bubble beards and going, “ho, ho, ho”. We fished for the floating blades of grass, catching them, and then flinging them onto the wall. In her bed, we slept. Our small swishy yet boney bodies lounging with the exhaustion of a working adult. Her little sister pushed the door open when her toddler belly and bounced against the side of the bed like a dog demanding to join. With the unknown strength of youth, I pulled her onto the bed and she crawled between us, wrapping her baby oil moisturized legs around my knee.

Later, we woke to the smell of chicken, rice, and black beans. Juliana’s mom was cooking dinner. I could go home to my house next door and eat what my mom had cooked or I could stay there and eat with Juliana. I would eat there. We ran downstairs with our renewed energy and slipped on our warm and washed clothes. The grass stains were gone, but not for long.

During dinner, her parents discussed adult topics that we found too foreign to care about while drinking adult drinks we couldn’t have and didn’t want. We ate a third of our meals, then asked if we could go outside. The adults nodded their heads and waved their hands dismissively. We ran out the front door. Our bare feet gently drummed against the earth once again.

Four square, hopscotch, sidewalk chalk. Dancing in nonpatterned movements around tiki torches with melted marshmallow on our chins. We were too young to learn or care about so-called civility. We ran with flashlights across a creek and through suburban woods until we reached the spot where we liked to lay in the grass searching our modest, yet luxurious Missouri night sky for stars.

            “Keri?” Juliana asked me.

            “Yeah?” I said.

            “How do you know when you’re in love?”

            I looked at her and said, “You just know.”

            “Have you ever been in love?” she asked, looking back at me.

            “Yes. I love you.”

            She giggled. “Is that what this is?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh. It’s simpler than I thought. Easy.”

            “With some people,” I said.

            “Keri?”

            “Yes?”

            “I love you.”

She was the first person I loved who I wasn’t related to. She was my first friend. It was simple, and easy. It was golden like the sunlight on our skin, and I am nostalgic for it.

We are now in our early twenties. We live twenty-two hours apart and neither one of us live in Missouri anymore. We see each other’s faces on our phone screens and receive birthday cards in the mail. I visit her at her new home and we walk in the Florida sand. My feet remember the glossy wet grass and think how different the powdery, warm sand feels, but it has the same effect. We swim in the ocean, dodging fish. The afternoon sun caramelizes our aging skin and crystalizes the stubborn sand between our toes as we sleep on towels. In the evenings, we watch the sun set while drinking those adult drinks we now understand and enjoy. We complain about the men who have broken our hearts and tell each other they were never good enough for us.

As children, we were always running, but now, we walk, one step at a time, together, no matter how far away the other is. Together we have grown up, and together we will grow old. We will always be friends. We will always be those two Missouri girls.

"Missouri Girls" is a flash creative non-fiction story at 721 word count. The story captures the essence of a first friend during childhood.

Keri Brock is a senior at the University of Nebraska at Omaha studying English with a minor in philosophy. Her short story, "Foolish Freshman", won Live Idea's Journal's Spring 2021 Short Story contest and an interview about the piece is published in their Summer 2021 edition. Her short story, "Three Years Passed", will be published in the University of Texas at San Antonio's literary journal, Sagebrush Review, in their 2022-2023 edition.

Instagram Handle: Keribrock01