washwords

Old friends, Old friends, Sat on their park bench, Like bookends.
A newspaper blown through the grass Falls on the round toes On the high shoes, Of the old friends.

***

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was A time of innocence, a time of confidences Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph Preserve your memories; they’re all that’s left of you, they’re all that’s left me to.

-Simon and Garfunkel, 1968

A month or so ago, no, undoubtedly it was longer now, an unknown number showed up on my phone. As is my practice, I didn’t answer. I often don’t answer the phone even when I know the caller- it scares me, disrupts my rhythm and flow of my days, or, in the case, quiet, writing evening. I especially don’t answer when I don’t recognize the number.

A minute later an email came through. This time from a name I DID recognize. “Just looking up old friends. How are you doing? Call me!” said the message from indeed an old friend, an old friend I hadn’t heard from in years, an old friend I once thought I loved, desparately, painfully, though now I know that feeling was just my state of mind at that time: longing. I wanted him especially because he did NOT want me, not even close. He wanted to be friends, a relegation worse than leprosy I thought then.

Because I’m the type of girl guys loveee to call when they’ve had a bad breakup or otherwise feeling like maybe my all-too-willing admiration wasn’t so bad, I was suspicious. Why the sudden memory of my greatness in the dreaded friend role? So I was cautious, short. I emailed back but “was crazed” no time to talk via phone. I wrote short emails transparent enough for me to even see my arms’ length, firmly pushing a space between us. I mentioned my boyfriend, lots. I stayed polite. I kept on a friendly polite path.

I felt validated. I was always the first to say goodbye in these conversations, I was the one steering away from memory lane and saying “oh yah, i remember that one, welp, have a good night” when the conversation veered to the sad songs we were the only two 18-year-olds ever to sing in their dorm rooms (“met my old lover in the grocery store… snow was falling christmas eve…” dan fogelberg) I could sense there was something unsaid by my friend, but not me, I wasn’t taking the bait.

A few nights ago, my friend showed up in my instant messenger, “just happened to be on, just bored, what’s going on?” and then a flurry of links one after another, each to a sappier, lovelier, more painful song, culminating in The One – our song, whether my old friend knew it or not (he did).

“hello its me…. I’ve thought about you for a long, long while… seeing you, or seeing anything as much as I do you… I take for granted that you just don’t care, I take for granted that you’re always there, sometimes I can’t helping seeing all the way through…” todd rundgren

“So… what’s up, really? Why the sudden contacting me, so out of the blue, after all this time?” I stated, flatly.

Old Friend: “Don’t worry, I’m not pursuing you or anything. I like being alone.”

Me: Great! Thanks.

It went on like this, each more flat and cold and whatever. I asked why the sentimental songs; he said hearing them made him sad but then much happier. I said they just made me sad, really. He said we’d had some good times. I agreed and some hard ones too, though, I added.

He apologized. I said it wasn’t his fault – it wasn’t – “to be honest, I was still grieving so much back then…” I say matter-of-factly, though in truth, I’ve just learned this myself fairly recently, after all these years.

“for my dad…” I go on…. “It just colors everything,” we type at the same time. And it did – the loss of my dad to cancer, when I was 12.

“You could be a bit much,” he says and I have to laugh a little, in spite of myself. I was! Especially then! “Especially for an 18-year-old boy with no emotional capacity.” I am surprised – the most emotive thing he’s ever told me. I say it’s okay, I long ago determined he was asexual. He says that’s pretty close, actually.

I tell him he’s “supposed to say” I was dazzlingly beautiful and he was an idiot, that it wasn’t because I wasn’t pretty enough or something, so he complies. It helps, actually. He sends more sad songs. “I really have to go… bedtime…” I say. He wants to know what I think he contacted me about if not to pursue me. I say, honestly, I don’t know. It just seems like there’s something else he wants to say. He is quiet. More sad songs.

I say Im going, goodnight.

In one long sentence he says his mom is dying of cancer and that he just came from there and that that’s why he reached out to old friends, okay, and to me, tonight, okay?! I say I am really sorry to hear that. I am. I remember his mom. She wanted him to love me too, I always thought.

I say I’m glad he shared, that I’m sorry I wasn’t more willing to listen. He says, no, he isn’t much good at articulating. I think that isn’t really true. Not any more. I say I am glad we’re friends and that he reached out to me, to be his friend again. And I realize, for the first time, that it is true: I have a new friend and an old one, too.