That was my introduction of some sort.

My God-all that for an introduction. I should stop treating this like my undergraduate thesis statement.

The real introduction starts with the day I met you, in the Third grade in Mr. Hinkley's class.

I've told you before that I loved you before I knew what the word 'love' meant, and that's going to sound false and far-fetched to a lot of people: how can a ten-year-old know what love is?

I would challenge how anyone could meet you and not understand that you're someone special worth loving, no matter their age.

And, hey, we could talk about how kids' feelings and experiences shouldn't be undermined. It's a conversation we've had before, one that makes me believe we're going to be great parents, because we learned from the best, but I digress. My feelings after my mom passed away weren't invalid. Neither were yours when your mom left. So why should what I felt for you at the tender little age of ten be dismissed?

After meeting you, it took a few years for me to name what I felt for you. What was this feeling for the girl who made me laugh? The girl who spent time with me every recess? The girl who was so sure I was the smartest student in class? I didn't know, but I knew it was something good.

I still remember the day I went home to my mom and dad and asked if I could invite you over. Looking back now, I realize they were probably surprised, just because I had always been more of a quiet kid who kept to himself, but I think it came as a relief for them that I had a friend I felt comfortable enough to invite over, you know, aside from birthday parties where everyone's invited out of courtesy or friends I knew through family. You were the first real friend I made on my own accord.

Of course my parents were excited to learn who this mysterious friend was who had their son all giddy and giggly. Once they made the connection and realized just which West you were, they were even more thrilled.

They told me the story of how your dad, a rookie cop, landed himself in the emergency room of Central City Hospital. He was triaged as a Level Four for a forehead laceration, so they assigned a resident physician to tend to him, that physician being my dad. Somehow in between Lidocaine injections and stitching his face, they struck an unconventional friendship. I remember my dad telling me it was one of his most memorable patient encounters just because of how nice and funny your dad was, but they lost touch after that.

What a twist of fate, that we brought our parents together again, the first of many wild cards in destiny that have come to characterize our relationship.