How is it possible that anyone could be named Firman? But kindergarten provided you, with a bowl cut running to seed and teeth in transition. That was the year we all lost our front teeth. You never spoke, but you would laugh often. Your laughter came out in a series of chuffs. One day you fell off the monkey bars and Mrs. Schnare came running, bracketed you with her hands while you squealed wordlessly in the pitch of a stepped-on dog. I went to a different school the next year and didn't see you again until grade nine. You were taller and stronger than everyone else, your limbs stuffed into bleached jeans and jean jacket. I recognized you by your hair, which was cut in the same unmistakable shaggy bowl. You recognized me too. Hi Aidan, you said.