Picnic: Crying and George

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piNarrative writing.
It was the 4th of July, 2000, America’s Independence Day. As usual on every Independence Day since I was five, George and Terry, my two best friends, and I, went on a picnic. I diligently carried out my household chores, packed my picnic bag and off I went to collect my friends. “It is going to be a beautiful day,” I thought to myself as I rode down my neighborhood street on my beat-up Schwinn. Unknown to me, I was to learn that day that the good die young. George and I were born on the same day. His father and my father were best friends from their days in high school. Their story is much like a novel or a movie about two life-long best friends. They joined the marines and both got married the same year. Interestingly, they had their firstborn on the same day. As fate would have it, George and I became real close friends. I did not have a sibling, and George became my twin brother. We did everything together and, interestingly, had similar talents. We were both outstanding in soccer and played in similar positions. To put it simply, we were inseparable. George had a big heart and was honest and caring. He would do anything for his friends, especially me. He was the perfect companion. We always held our little Independence Day picnic by the river. It was three quarters of a mile west of our apartment. As the three of us rode noisily past the houses on our bicycles, fireworks exploded loudly from the neighborhood. It was such a promising day. By the river, we played soccer, swam and caught fish – just a single, tiny and bony catfish. After having a late lunch, we sat down and talked and laughed loudly. Then out of the blue, George held my hand tightly. “Promise we will always be best friends; that we will be exactly like our dads?” he earnestly pleaded with me. I cannot explain why, but a chill ran down my spine. I had never seen George that serious before. “I promise,” I mumbled, barely audibly.

It was almost dark and we had to rush home...
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