We were only seven.  You were a sandy-haired, dimple-faced boy who never lost his smile on that base in North Carolina.  I remember riding with your family to Tennessee, the two of us in the back seat of the minivan.  Your sister glared at us, crammed in the middle seat between suitcases, my mom, and an oversized stuffed bear.  I can't believe we subjected our families to solid hours of laughing, sticking our feet in each others' faces, you joking about taking a piss out the window.  Your dad's face turned red, and Mom swears she saw a little steam shoot out his ears.  

After you moved, the years have been silent between us, but I have wondered about you.  For years I kept that giant, white Michael Bear you gave me with the blue bow tie, until it got lost in a move, or worse, my dad threw it away.  I've always reminisced on what it would be like to meet you again.  Did you drop out of high school?  Become a rock star?  Graduate from Harvard Law School with honors?  Get married?  The absence of your story has intrigued me, haunted me almost.  I've never found anyone who can make me laugh like you did.  I wonder if it's still true.  I wonder where my Michael Bear is.