It was the summer six years ago, back when we talked about playmobiles and danced the “Macarena”. When we skipped down the hallway holding hands. A long time has passed since then, but this memory is part of who I am, and I will keep it with me until another six years pass, and after that.

My cousins, my aunt, my mom, and my sisters were all going to spend a week in my grandfather’s house at the beach, in a small city called Calpe on the Mediterranean coast. I was excited to be able to pack my own things to bring in the car, and I clutched my well-used copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows close to my chest, as well as a bookmark I got from my teacher the previous year.

All of us met at my grandmother’s house before leaving; a small apartment that used to hold seven, bursting at the seams, but now was only home to Grandma and the occasional small grandchild. My cousin ran to hug me, almost a mirror image of myself. We had cut our hair and arranged to put it into two pigtails for the journey, although, hers were a lot curlier than mine. It made me jealous. We were also wearing identical green tank tops and short white leggings.

“I’m so excited!” she squealed, I nodded my head,

“I know, we’ll get to sleep together, and go to the beach, and eat ice cream, and have the best time ever!”

We left my grandmother with promises of “yes, we’ll behave” and “yes we’ll have fun, and eat good food, and get a tan”. Finally, Grandma pulled us into a hug, her thin skin pulling on her bones, and we were off.

The drive seemed eternal and after a countless amount of “how much longer”s, we reached Calpe.

The first few days passed in a blur of sunshine, sand, and ice cream. It became our tradition to go out for ice cream after dinner each night, as well as explore a little of the small city everyday. One morning, as we walked along the promenade, we saw a squat storefront selling bad quality beach toys, t-shirts, and necklaces. The inside was dark, and piled with stuff all the way up the walls to the ceiling. Despite all of the stuff in the store, only one object caught my eye. A display covered in silver necklaces with names on them. My heart swelled, and immediately thought, I want one. As my sister and cousin noticed what I was looking at, they also crowded around me.

“Please, Mom, please,” I begged, the necklaces were so pretty, “please.”

My mom and my aunt looked at each other, and decided it was a good idea. My mom whispered in my ear, “do you want to get some for your friends?” So I looked for their names. Laura, Sarah, Mer, Julia. They were all there, I smiled, and we bought them all.

The vacation continued as it begun, happy, sunny, and with a lot of paella, but before long we were back in Madrid.

A few weeks passed, and I wore my necklace every day, the other four I kept safe in a drawer in my bedroom. One day, after a came back home from the swimming pool, my mom and dad called me to my bedroom.

“Wait,” I said, “my swimsuit is still wet, I have to change.”

“No, Lucia. Come here first, this is more important.”

I tentatively walked into my bedroom; the walls were all pink and covered in drawings and baby pictures from when I lived there four years ago. Both of my parents were sitting on the edge of my bed, with room for me in the middle, looking worried. I mirrored their looks. They began to tell me what happened, and their faces got more and more grave, and the sunlight that had been streaming through the windows minutes ago was gone. What? I thought. I was confused, but I had read enough books to know what my parents we saying. It was an accident… her brother is all right… I’m sorry. I cried. Tears pricked at my eyes and cheeks, and a lump formed in my throat. My chest tightened and I cried on my mom’s shoulder. I remembered sleeping over at her house for the first time. I was scared and homesick, and didn’t want to go to sleep, but Julia said, why don’t you want to sleep? That’s what sleepovers are for.

“It’s ok,” my mom said, hugging me tight in her arms, “it’s ok.”

I remembered all of the mornings we spent in the playground, swinging on the monkey bars and jumping off the swings, flying as if we were birds.

In spite of the news, we went to my grandma’s house for lunch, and there I saw my cousin again.

“Is it true your friend died?” she asked, with wide eyes.

“Yes.”

“What was her name?” I didn’t answer, I didn’t want to talk about it, plus, it’s not like she knew her.

“What was her name?” she repeated.

“Julia.”

When we got back to school, I gave out all of my necklaces, and wore mine proudly, and kept Julia’s. I thought about giving it to her dad, Mr. Hoffman, when I saw him at school. He looked sad. His shoulders drooped, and he bent his head staring at the floor, and never waved to me in the hallways anymore. The halls looked darker now, and I never skipped down them anymore, like Julia used to do, her soft brown curls bouncing as she hopped. We never talked about playmobiles, or danced the “Macarena” in class. Her silver necklace found a home in my drawer, forever a memory.

I remember her every year, on her birthday. 11/11. We used to joke about it, and now we hug, and the people who knew her share memories, and light a candle for her. Sometimes I hold her necklace at night and cry a little bit, like when I was seven. Her necklace is old now. The silver plating is chipped and the leather is gray and stiff; it reminds me of how much time has passed. Enough for my youngest sister Marta to grow to Julia’s age, enough for me to stop wearing my hair in pigtails and lose my necklace, and enough for all of her friends to finish Elementary School, Middle School, and start High School. All of us have begun to think about our futures, college, careers, money; we don’t have time to dance the “Macarena”, or the energy to skip in the hallways. But Julia will always be eight and thinking of playmobiles and monkey bars, and dancing and skipping. She’ll wear silly bandz up to her elbow, and we will wear expensive shining jewelry.

Time has passed very quickly, without noticing. We are no longer girls but women, and we left Julia behind, but that doesn’t mean we don’t love her. We do, and she will always keep a special place in my heart, as well as a piece of her in my drawer.