By Noe Hijara Pedrajas

It was the summer of 1990, fiesta day in our barrio, when my best friend died of leukemia. He was only 27, I was 12. Every time I remember that sad day, I feel like crying, though I try to hide my pain with a smile. He was my best friend, so loving, so dear to me. He seemed to possess everything I could want in a friend. He would hug me whenever I felt alone. He was fun to be with. He would defend me against the taunts of others. He was creative and helped me with my school projects. I remember in sixth grade our class was assigned to make a bamboo vase. Not even my father knew how to make one. I didn’t know what to do. My best friend came to my rescue and helped me fashion it.