The Weight of Fur

The bear head above the mantle still watched me after all these years, glass eyes catching the afternoon light, its mounted snout frozen in a silent snarl. My father had shot it in Alaska, back when friendship was as simple as sharing a glove and taking turns at bat.

Now I stood in the baseball stadium, the corporate seats courtesy of my promotion—a promotion earned on the backs of people I'd once called friends. The game below was a blur of motion, but I wasn't watching. I was thinking about Mark.

We'd played baseball together for twelve seasons, from Little League through high school, until I took that scholarship offer that sent us in opposite directions. Last week's email had been brief: his sister was getting married, and he wanted to know if I'd come.

The bear had always reminded me of what we'd done that summer we were nineteen—how we'd driven to the mountains and gotten drunk on cheap whiskey, how we'd promised we'd never change, how we'd fallen asleep on a cliff and almost died because we were too arrogant to think anything could touch us.

Now the baseball diamond stretched out like a lie, perfect and manicured and nothing like the gritty fields we'd played on. The crowd erupted at a home run, and I found myself crying, the tears hot and sudden.

Some weights you never stop bearing. Some friends you never stop loving, even after you've become the person they'd hate. The bear kept its counsel, and I bought a ticket to the wedding.