The Final High-Five

By Alice Penfold

When we high-fived tonight—before you left my bedside for the final time—I became ten again. I remember now; we never stopped until the slapping clap of our palms was perfect. Forever twinned together, as your hand touched mine.

Double trouble. That’s what Mr Clay said, in our primary days. I remember now. When we super-glued his seat, squeezed tomato ketchup into his coffee, scribbled hearts in permanent markers on his very white walls, he’d sigh, exasperated. Double trouble. We high-fived each time.

Until tonight, we hadn’t high-fived for fifteen years. Tonight, I felt that slapping clap more than ever.