Knick

Knick

My best friend died too young. He was twelve years old when he disappeared alongside his brother one summer evening. Their bodies were never recovered, but the evidence found eventually led to the boys being pronounced dead several years later.

His name was Nickolas Knight. Everyone who knew him well called him Knick. Some would tell you he was a smart kid who would have excelled as an adult. But, if asked, I would still tell you to this day that whatever he was or would have been did not matter because he was an amazing best friend.

Knick and I had grown up together in our small North Carolina town. Our parents owned neighboring farmland. His family raised dairy cattle while mine worked with primarily sheep. It was less than a miles walk from my house to his and we spent the greater part of our childhood traveling back and forth throughout weekends and summer breaks.

Though we were born around the same time and knew one another within our first year of life we were never really close until we turned six. Knick and I were unlike the other kids. Girls didn't talk to boys and the boys refused to talk to girls. I kept hearing the word “cooties” at school, but I wasn't dead yet and so I never stopped being his friend. Knick was incredibly tolerable for his age. Most boys wouldn't come within ten feet of a doll house, but he did. In fact, if I begged long enough, he'd play with the dolls too without getting frustrated and ripping their heads off. In turn I'd grit my teeth and play with his dump truck in the sand or kick a soccer ball around the lawn.

When we were walking to the school bus at the age of eleven, he held my hand for the first time. And despite the nitpicking from the onlookers he boldly grinned while I scolded the other kids. Our innocent acts of affection led to our first kiss the following year only a few months before Knick disappeared. And though at the time the kiss meant nothing and we drew away with disgusted faces, I look back and can only grin.

Knick and his brother, Neil, went missing coincidentally during the year the cougars chose to pick off the livestock. It seemed like every morning our fathers would go out and check on the animals to find a missing sheep or an injured cow. We bought a couple sheep dogs to watch the flock, but instead of just a dead sheep we often found a crippled dog too. It seemed to quickly develop into a no win situation. Finally traps were set and the killer was caught and shot. Knick and I in our separate houses heard the gunshot the morning the ranger came and shot the trapped cat. We were told everything would go back to normal. It did, for a few days.

We were finally allowed to be out after nightfall again to chase fireflies with our nets. And when it was time for Knick to leave, Neil would come to fetch him. Neil was six years older and so at eighteen he was more than old enough to keep an eye out on his brother. I had resentment towards him when I knew him, but it was because of how much different Neil was from Knick. Where Knick excelled in grace, Neil was a rough and tumble sort. Though close brothers, they were incredibly different people.

So I said my farewells like any other evening. I watched the golden haired boy bounce away in the moonlight wearing his faithful smile on his face. He waved over his shoulder as he and Neil took their mile walk back home. It was the last time I saw them. Neil and Knick would never make it home.