I believe in charcoal. Those ember-etched pieces that flake at the slightest touch hold a peculiar power. They leave bold, dark marks on surfaces and, as I discovered one summer morning, can also leave equally lasting marks on relationships.
I was hanging around in my backyard, just minding my own business when a hint of barbecue drifted in my nose. I turned around and saw the grill. Curious, I walked over and peered inside. Leftover charcoal from last night's bonfire beamed back at me. I admired how it crunched beneath my fingers, leaving black streaks behind, far bolder than the pastel chalks I normally used. It felt thrilling—daring enough that I walked over to my driveway and drew a few lines. But that didn’t satisfy me. I wanted something more rebellious, more impactful. Looking back, maybe I just felt left out by certain friends, and that hurt was simmering underneath the surface. Instead of talking about it, I let the excitement of doing something “naughty” fuel my next move.
So I wandered down the street to my good neighbor's house with the charcoal crumbling in my sweaty hand. Without much thought, I pressed the brittle tip against the pale concrete and scribbled some nasty remarks. Phrases like "This family sucks" and "Never be friends with these people" littered their entire walkway. After I felt like my ambitions were satisfied, I retreated to my basement like nothing ever happened.
That afternoon, their dad, Bill, knocked on our door. The moment I heard him, my stomach dropped. I confessed right away. As we walked back to his house, I saw his whole family busy scrubbing away those rude comments. "How is this so hard to get off?" joked one of the brothers. Embarrassed, I offered to help, but they were nearly done. "Why?", asked Bill. Honestly, I didn't have an answer. "Was it because our kids weren't playing with you as much?" "Yeah," I said—maybe that's the reason. Apologizing, I went home. Seeing them all clean up my careless remarks was a real wake-up call: it only took me a minute to scrawl those words, but boy did they take some serious effort to remove.
A couple of years later, my family moved out of state. We went to say goodbye to Bill, who had also moved, and he handed me a brand-new basketball. I was floored. He had every right to be upset about what I did, but instead, he chose kindness. That gift was a small thing, but it felt huge to me. Like a bandage across a deep gash, it showed me how even a bad choice can lead to something good if I own up and learn from it.
So yes, I believe mischief can strengthen friendships—not by celebrating bad behavior, but by proving how honesty and the willingness to make amends can turn a lousy prank into a moment of real connection. And at the core of it all, I still believe in charcoal. Its gritty, black lines remind me that the darkest marks I leave—on the pavement or in someone’s memory—can actually spark deeper understanding if I handle things honestly. After all, my worst impulses don’t have to push people away; sometimes, they can bring me closer than ever before. That’s why I believe in charcoal.