The Axolotl Kingdom

I remember the first time I ran next door and rang your doorbell. I must have been seven then. You were six. Your front door was painted a dark pine green, and I stared at it until you answered. “I don’t play with girls,” you said. I ran home and cried.

I didn’t talk to you again for a year. By then, none of the boys played with you anymore. They didn’t like that you fussed when you got muddy or wet and that you hated ball sports. It was only in your isolation that you came to find me. I didn’t turn you away, the way you had. I knew what it felt like to be rejected.

We made up games. Since you liked axolotls, we pretended to be axolotls. We drew chalk obstacle courses on your driveway and made your dad try them. Sometimes, we did it on my driveway, but I could never convince my parents to jump, run, and do squats.

Your dad built you a treehouse, all by hand. We went in there once, brushing past the skunkweed that rooted in the woods behind your house. You had wanted a loft and slide, but your dad said that was too hard. So you showed me the treehouse, and then we never went back.

Your mom taught you manners, and she did it well. By the time you turned nine, you had become a lot nicer. You learned how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and how to read human emotions. And you let me decide what game to play and what character I would be.

We played together every day after school. You insisted we move our imaginations inside where the air conditioning was. We played in your basement, in an imaginary setting called ‘The Axolotl Kingdom’. You brought down your stuffed animals from your room, and I took mine to your house in a gray suitcase. I brought my Mini-Brands as props and made little books for the stuffed animals to read. I don’t think you ever realized how long it takes to create a tiny magazine with tiny words and pictures, but I made them anyway, just to see your delight.

Our game history grew larger and more complex. It developed into a moving society. We built a palace and an arcade out of your building blocks. Every character had a personality and unraveling background story, and only I could remember them all. Our little role-play game became a universe, too detailed and intricate ever to be explained. It was our special bond, our unbreakable connection.

I still play with you almost every day. Maybe you don’t realize it now, maybe you will never, but I do. One day we’ll have to part, and we might not see each other again. Even if we keep in touch, it’ll be months and years before we could meet again. We both have different life paths, different things to pursue. But I know I will always remember you and every game we played. I know I will always remember your laugh, and all the days we spent together.

Will you remember me, too?