The Idea of Friend, Loss, and a Red Sweatshirt

I revisited the memory of a friend recently.
You know that empty feeling you get
when you think of the way it was
and that which you no longer have?
I was discussing poetry with my 5th graders
defining terms like symbol, life, and friendship.
Then it hit me, what is a friend?
They gave me the standard answers.
They gave me what they thought it should be.
And that was ok for them.
Because their friends were real,
immediate like concrete and fire.
Then I walked down the staircase
with them following me
and I looked out the window on the landing
and felt the familiar aching
that accompanies the rememberences and knowing
that your friend is gone.

I am not sure when the first time I noticed,
but at some point I saw the red sweatshirt
on the tree stump.
I thought it was odd sitting there
without its owner.
I stretched my neck to see
if I could divine a pathway to the stump
but it looked overgrown with brush
all around it.
I remember the first rainy day
when looking out,
I saw it still and soaking.
And in the first snows
I waited to see its redness
peer out from the melt.
Each time I went downstairs
there it was for me to see.
Reliable, like the old man
sitting on the bench
by the general store.
Like being greeted at the door
by your dog
so happy it can hardly contain itself.
I began to smile whenever I went downstairs.
I had so many questions for it.
How did it get there?
Did it have anything on it?
What size was it?
Where did it come from?
Does anyone else notice it?
Is it lonely?
It was still there after each vacation:
Winter, spring break, summer.

And then one day it was gone.
I felt my stomach drop when I noticed.
At first I thought it had been perhaps blown off
and tried to get a better angle and view.
And then I was angry.
Angry that it was gone,
didn't say goodbye.
And I missed it.
I felt a little silly,
but I allowed myself the indulgence.
For this red sweatshirt
was a friend.