October 2022 . . . .

Notes on a life.

     A friend of mine died. It was in March, but I didn’t know, because I was consumed with the health problems of another friend, and I had just emailed him and although I knew that his heart was failing I didn’t know that it was not going to last much longer. Perhaps I should have sensed something was happening, something was wrong. He asked me for my home address, said he wanted to send me something, but didn’t say what it was. Maybe a picture. Maybe a book. And though I’d given my new addy to him before, I didn’t think anything of this re-request. We sometimes ask for something more than once and are chided for not remembering. I don’t know what happened to it, he might have typed. No big deal, I would have responded to such a thing. Here you go. Even only typing, without the reassurance of hearing someone’s voice, conversations with old friends can be indolent and comfortable, like telling a story to someone who’s heard it a hundred times before when you enjoy your own words and they just don’t mind that you’re doing it again, or maybe they do, just a little, but they cut you that break. That is how friendship works.


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