The first one? That's easy.
It's not the one I remember best, or a special one, even though it is special—all of our moments together were.
We were little kids, around five or four, I think. It was our first moment.
I had been walking down the sidewalk with my mother, holding her hand, which she gripped tightly. I was licking an ice cream cone, chocolate, the dark kind that tastes the best.
She was with her mother, walking a little ahead with her mom trying to keep up. She had a vanilla ice cream cone, and was licking it quickly, not a care in the world.
I bumped right into her, dropping my perfect chocolate ice cream and watching it fall, in slow motion, and splatter in all of its perfect glory on the pavement.
We both stared down at it, tears forming in my eyes. Then I looked at her, and she looked at me. Her eyes were wide.
I felt a tear leak down my cheek and struggled not to let another one fall.
Her eyes slowly followed the tear down my face and watched it plot to the ground, right in the middle of what used to be my ice cream.
Her eyes trailed back to me, my hands gripped in an effort not to cry, and then slowly down to her own ice cream cone.
There was a moment of silence, everyone frozen, and then she thrust her ice cream cone at my face, almost spilling it. I took it uncertainly.
Her mother smiled and the two moms started to talk. I sat down on the nearest bench with her and she watched my lick the new flavored cone and I eventually shared it with her. Vanilla wasn't my favorite, but ice cream was ice cream, and I couldn't very well turn down a gift.
That was our first day together, and our mothers soon realized we only lived a street away. That was our first moment, and I had no idea how many more there were to come.