They covered the front lawn like vague white flowers, so far down. We were in the attic of Boorman House, three stories up. My brother and I had gone to the library specifically in search of a book on paper airplanes, and came home with a stack. It was the first time we had gotten along all summer.

We threw them hard, giggling every time, knowing the Resident Assistant would spot us any minute and usher us off the 3rd story roof outside Jeremy's window. He wasn't home, though he told us he would be. Of course, he said a lot of things.

I'd never made a real one before; Jessie showed me how to fold the paper, little tricks to make it soar up and catch the wind. The dumb roar of a frat party droned in the distance, but we kept it simple, our planes zinging up and gliding, like so many clumsy doves.

A simple night to savor, before his many betrayals, when our friendship was still an easy cocoon that we trusted would last. Those days that end so perfectly are such a gift, resting within your memory like the sun disappearing behind the horizon's imaginary line. Amazing how life always goes on, how we fly away from each other, lazily on the breeze, until the current of every day choices takes us in its many-fingered grasp, and soon we've landed far apart, in different patches of shady grass.

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