#TBT

My first friend in the world outside of my family was named Jade. Our dads were in a band together, and the nanny took care of us when they had gigs. Sometimes for a night, sometimes for a weekend, sometimes for a week or two. We danced and played and hugged and kissed on the mouth like babies do. I still have tapes of us singing somewhere-a TV blaring in the background, the white noise of cassette ribbon, and two babbling toddlers entertaining each other.
Her dad would come home and give us the change in his pockets. We kept it in a bank that looked like a soda can. I'm not sure if there was ever a plan for it, I think I was just fascinated by the metallic green label-knowing there was money in there, shaking it to make the most noise possible. 

When we were both four, Jade laid down for a nap and died.
Her memorial service was held at night. The memory I have of that night is seventies brown. I remember the amber light of the lamp, sitting in the shag carpet at my grandmother's feet.  In my mind now the room was so small even though children always remember things being so much bigger than themselves.  I don't know how it was explained to me but I knew that my parents were going out because she was dead. I sat and stared at that coin bank all night, feeling like it was staring back at me and thinking it was somehow aware that Jade wouldn't be back.
Every broken heart I've had since then has been a quarter in a 7Up can.