When we were kids,
the world was small enough
to fit in a backyard
and big enough
to hold every dream we had.
You were Jose Canseco,
power in your swing,
confidence loud and fearless.
I was Pudge Rodriguez,
steady behind the plate,
trusting you to bring it home.
Same dirt on our shoes.
Same sunburned afternoons.
Same belief that if we played long enough,
nothing would ever change.
We didn’t talk about the future.
We just assumed it would include each other—
like cousins always do,
like best friends always promise
without saying the words.
Somewhere along the way,
the seasons stopped lining up.
Different paths.
Different lives.
Different versions of who we had to become
just to survive.
Now years sit between us
like unopened letters.
No fights.
No big goodbye.
Just silence that grew
while we weren’t looking.
I still think of you
when memories get soft—
when laughter used to come easy,
when belonging didn’t feel complicated.
I still remember us
before adulthood taught us
how to drift.
You don’t know me anymore.
Maybe you don’t even think of me.
But I still carry that kid
who stood at the plate
trusting his cousin
to be there.
And even now,
part of me hopes
that somewhere inside you,
you remember us too—
not as strangers,
not as silence,
but as two kids
on the same team,
believing we were unstoppable.
Through the Fog 