Temporarily Lost Forever

Once, we walked to a friend’s door. Now, we hesitate to call.

Two months ago, I called a friend I have known for twenty years. He didn’t answer. We still haven’t spoken.

I don’t know why he hasn’t called back. But I know the hesitation myself: seeing an old friend’s name on the phone, wanting to talk, and somehow not feeling ready for what should be a simple conversation.

I remember a time when visiting a friend meant going to his house without knowing whether he would be there. Mobile phones weren’t part of our lives, and even a landline wasn’t something every household had. You went, knocked, and found out. There was anticipation on the way, disappointment if he was absent, excitement if he was home. If you missed him, you might try again the next day. None of this felt like too much trouble.

Now, the same friend is an instant message away. Yet we can go months without speaking.

Perhaps part of the difficulty is deciding where to begin. We have accumulated successes and disappointments since we last spoke. Which do we share first? Do we talk about the good years, or the difficult few weeks we are living through now? How much explaining will it take before we can simply talk?

Sometimes I think I’ll call someone once I feel more settled, once I have something better to say. Then another week passes. Eventually, the silence itself becomes one more thing to explain.

There are times when I want company and times when I want to be left alone. Sometimes I reach for my phone to pass the time, yet hesitate to use it to call a friend. The phone is always within reach. The willingness isn’t.

At school, friendship had a continuity we barely noticed. We spent years in one another’s company. A conversation could resume the next morning without either person having to account for the time in between.

Then we moved to different schools, different cities, different lives. We missed the small changes in one another’s days. By the time we spoke again, those changes had become whole chapters.

Finding the arc of continuity became harder.

Most of the people I am in touch with now are the parents of my children’s friends. We meet often, so familiarity grows. I am tempted to call these friendships of convenience, though that feels unfair. My oldest friendships also began with the convenience of seeing the same people every day.

Still, there are things I would find easier to discuss with someone who knew me before my life took its present shape. With an old friend, there is so much I wouldn’t need to explain—and, after years apart, so much I would.

That is the predicament. You want the ease of the friendship you remember, but you don’t quite know how to resume it.

I think of my friend and wonder what kept him from answering, then from calling back. Perhaps he was busy that day and forgot. Perhaps something is weighing on him. Perhaps we have drifted further apart than I care to admit.

I cannot tell from the silence.

For now, he is temporarily lost forever. “Temporarily,” because I still imagine we will speak again. “Forever,” because neither of us has said when.

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