A Farewell to Friend

2014 was the first time in my life that a friend silently slipped off the radar and into friendship oblivion. I guess I can't really complain. At 33, I was probably due for a big friend fallout. But this wasn't just a friend; this was a really good friend. This was the kind of friend I spent holidays with when I couldn't get home to my family. The kind of friend I lovingly referred to as a "sister from another mister." The kind of friend who was  one of the funnest -- and funniest -- people I've ever known. The kind of friend whose absence hasn't gone unnoticed. And I'm not gonna lie: it has been both hard and horrible.

In my mind's version of the story there wasn't a specific moment where things went wrong. It was more of a slow fizzle. I moved back to Ohio after an extended period of time working out-of-state and we seemed to pick back up where we had left off. A few months later, once eagerly-embraced lunch invites were getting pushed off never to be rescheduled.

At first, I tried to blame it on the age old struggle between Camp Parent and Camp Freebird. I didn't have any skin in the game when it came to Brownie gossip or ballet recitals. She had obligations and a spouse who presumably frowned on standing Wine Wednesdays. But the reality is that I have many busy parent friends. Despite the seeming differences in lifestyles, when a relationship is important to the people on both sides...you find a middle ground. Each side bends a little. You adapt and find a way.

There have been times over the past few months when I've wanted to send my friend a letter. Sometimes I'm curious to know what happened. Sometimes I'm tempted to rant for pages about how disappointed I am. Whenever I start to type, I stop myself. I stop myself because I realize whatever the case or response or reason, I'm writing to a stranger and chasing the ghost of a friendship that has already slipped away.

I recently read a post on this topic, and the author's words really hit home:

Losing a friend is very much like a break-up, in the sense that any form of interaction that you have with that person in the future will never be the same again. No matter how much either of you try, once you have crossed that line of inescapable complications and incompatibility, everything that you shared with each other will slowly deteriorate, until ultimately letting go is the only option left.

The thing about us is that we are fixers. We are the ‘Bob the Builders’ of our own lives, and it gets pretty devastating once we find ourselves in a position where the answer to "Can we fix it?" is “No, we can’t.”

Perhaps there is a point in certain friendships -- a point at which we stop seeing things -- and each other -- clearly. A point at which we believe ourselves to be patching everything together, but in reality we're just making a mess of things. As children, it's easy to know when to call it quits. The summer sun threatens to set, your mother's voice finds you beckoning to pack it in. Things get slightly more difficult in adulthood. We can eat when we want and the sun no longer tells us what to do and when. There are no rule books or guide maps for this. As grownups, we're the captains of our own sailing and sinking ships. Sometimes we surface to find ourselves the lone survivor of something we once believed invincible. Sometimes we're left standing on a shore of silent wreckage, clutching memories as the sole surviving souvenirs of a one-time forever friend.

I miss you friend. I hope your heart is happy. 

The Sidewalks of Chicago

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. I've only been there once.

There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets I can tell you about. I won't tell you the name, because it's not important. But it's there, believe me. High above the hustle and bustle of a street named after a state, some of the most world's most talented musicians have met their destiny.

It is more treasure chest than shop. A landing pad where string instruments arrive like long-awaited foreign dignitaries with names like Francois and Annalinda. Some of them are named after artists or constellations, others named after lovers lost between the pages of the world's greatest unwritten love stories. Each one has a history. Many of them, if not most, are centuries old. One sat in the corner, listening to gossip at Marie Antoinette's ball. Another recalls the first breath of fresh air after years passed hiding in Amsterdam. The youngest is rumored to have a distant cousin that continued playing that night as the ship went down.

When you meet the dignitaries your instinct is to hush. You want to believe they will whisper their stories if you listen closely enough.

There is a sadness to the dignitaries. They have lost-and survived-everyone they ever loved and every hand that ever loved them in return. They have lived a series of lives, a constant reincarnation marked by the passing of time and the ticking of t he clock. Dutifully, they have sung again and again under aging hands, having lost as soon as they are found. They serve faithfully. They endure knowing others cannot. The dignitaries mourn; you can hear it if you listen, like holding a seashell to your ear. Every last breath, ever final farewell and ever swan song remains in the and of their scrolls and the spaces in between.

The people who buy the dignitaries spend a small fortune; at times, the price of a modest home. It seems unfathomable, but once you've heard them sing, you understand they're not just buying an instrument, they're liberating legends and wrapping their fingers around a legacy.

There are families that bring small children to meet the dignitaries. And though the children do not yet know it, their families have also brought them to meet their destinies. The children politely bow and greet the dignitaries. One by one, down the line, they raise their tiny fingers and tiny hands until they stand before The One that sings out in their native tongue. In a split second a path is cleared and a golden light shines just a little bit brighter through 48,000 crystals dangling above the sacred hall on 7th Avenue.There is a place in Chicago, high above the streets, I can tell you about. You would never find it were you not looking. It's behind a door with a brass handle and across a marble floor to an ancient elevator, the kind you only see in old movies. A black man with kind eyes will help you now. He'll pull aside a brass gate with strong hands before asking you which floor you're headed to. Tell him the 6th floor or maybe the 8th. It could have even been the 9th, I can't quite recall. Pass down the short hallway, then a right down the long corridor. If you hit the water fountain you've gone too far.To your right you will see a series of leaded glass windows. Some will be propped open. Step toward them, take a deep breath and see-really see. In the middle of this building in the middle of all this concrete, nine stories below there is a garden thriving in a city. Almost nobody knows. But now you do.Take a seat on the old wooden bench worn from years of visitors coming and going. Close your eyes. Somewhere in the distance the click of a woman's high heeled shoes comes nearer, then further away from you.It's quiet now and you are aware of the sound of your breathing and heartbeating high above a city that does not know of courtyard gardens or dignitaries or of your existence.

At the end of the hall there is an arched doorway. You can see it from where you sit. A single, short step leads up to an old wooden door. Light escapes through a crack between the floor and the base of the door. Beyond the door you hear voices, muffled but jovial. Then the click of a door beyond the door.

And then the singing begins.

You are hearing a familiar song for the first time. Every memory rushes back to you. Discovering toes. The comfort of being tucked into bed as a child. The infinite weightlessness of soaring through the air on a tire swing. The touch of your grandfather's hand patting your back. The smell of July at 10:30 p.m. The feel of a paintbrush in your hand. The taste of vanilla ice cream and South Carolina peaches. The exquisite sensation of slipping beneath the surface of the water in a swimming pool. The exact moment a ride on a bike with no training wheels finally makes sense. The electricity of the first kiss. The rush and rebellion of your first beer. The people you know and knew are laughing and smiling and waving as they go sailing by on a brilliantly colored carousel. Every dream, every hope, every wish is coming back to you now, like lady bugs

Open your eyes.

Stand up.

Turn away from the arched doorway. Walk down the long corridor. Take your time. Turn left down the short hallway. You'll find the elevator and your friend waiting to return you to the lobby from the 6th or the 8th or the 9th floor. He's quieter this time.

When the elevator stops and the doors open, step out and cross the marble floor. Pull open the door and step outside. Let the sunlight envelope you as you squint upward seeing only white light.

To your left a yellow taxi pauses at a stoplight as a child passes through the crosswalk leading a yellow balloon.

High above a bow is lifted from strings as a familiar life begins again on the sidewalks of Chicago.

The Lost Letter: The Story of Almost Us

[A letter: December 2010] The art of losing, they say, isn't very hard to master. And just like every person on this planet I have lost something; people and places and memories that certain smells and seasons and dates unexpectedly return to me. I traded and bartered parts of who I am and who I was for bits and pieces of the people and places and memories I wanted to keep. Just like every person on this planet I have been dented and dinged and bruised somehow. Smart enough to know better, but not smart enough to do better, because I believed and hoped and dreamed. And believers and hopers and dreamers are the exact kinds of people who push themselves too close to the edge of a high shelf just to take in the view. We're never concerned with the fall. We are reckless people, fearless in the face of fear. We gamble, punch drunkenly, and take chances despite the odds. We spin madly out of control with our heads thrown back, laughing wildly.

Just like every person on this planet I am learning how to forgive and remember that every person here has a heart and wishes and desires and wants, too.

There is a box on the shelf of me somewhere. Its contents? Nine yellow balloons. Two magnets. A field sunflowers happy anywhere but the vase. A once upon a time flying jellyfish waiting to transport us to lunch or float us away into outer space.

Today I have returned the pixie dust to the proper jar. The spines of books and thoughts color-coded and realigned. Bedtime precedes the lavender hour these days. Before voices soften and the first morning birds begin to sing.

If once upon a time, someone would have told me, in a certain tone of voice, "Some people will change you without your permission,"  I would still have done it all the same.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

No one lives (or loves) to tell the story of the almost us.