[What follows is pure fiction. It is a short story that I hope you will enjoy. It’s not funny, but it’s what I wanted to write. Please don’t read anything into this post.]
It was during a brief April thaw, when a chance breeze blew the snow and a few minutes of sunlight melted the white crystals. That was the moment I saw it. I picked it up and slapped it against my thigh. I could read my name on the envelope. I could read the return address in the upper left corner.
It was too late. Things would never be the same now…never.
It’s a fairly well-known fact that men do not bond easily with each other. We have trouble sharing. True friends are hard to find and keep when you pass your fifties. Friendships that last into ones seventies are indeed rare. The thread that holds these long relationships are usually rooted in childhood. If you’re lucky, one or two childhood buddies will grow old with you. Such was the case of the one-time friend whose holiday card I held in my right hand.
We met in elementary school. Played in each others back yards. Entered into adolescence together. In high school we traded secrets about girls…those mysterious beings that we thought constantly about. We talked about first kisses and puzzled over the best way to find and unlock those strange bra hooks.
We had our first legal beers together. We played high school sports together. We went on camping trips together.
We were the best of friends. As the years passed, other playmates drifted into different social circles. But we stayed close. We celebrated our jobs, listened to the same music and showered affection on each others children.
My friend and I went through divorces, sat in empty bars, looked at younger women and talked to each other and into our pints of beer.
When our retirements approached, things began to change. He called less. I emailed less. Our visits to each others homes became more and more infrequent.
We were growing apart, something that seemed to me to be the opposite of what life would be like after retirement. The phone calls went unanswered and the postcards stopped arriving.
In the late fall, I became quite annoyed by being ignored. I unfriended him on Facebook. I deleted his email address. I stopped making meaningless phone calls.
I decided to put the issue to a test. I sent him a holiday card. If he sent one back, then I knew something of our friendship would survive. If I got nothing, I knew that for some reason, he did not want to be a part of my life.
So, I waited.
A few holiday cards arrived but never did much to fill our mailbox. Facebook and email greetings were slowly out pacing the USPS.
On Christmas Eve, I picked up the mail. I placed the few cards on our bed. There was nothing from him. I knew then that our life-long friendship had come to a slow and sad end. It would be a lie to say that I did not weep a little over a friendship that had lasted for over sixty years. Men do have emotions.
* * *
It was in early March that I found myself browsing the internet. I came to a Facebook page devoted to people in our class who had passed away.
I felt the blood drain from my face and I went numb when I read that my friend had died of a massive coronary a week earlier.
Then came the April thaw. I had pulled the envelope from the snow and placed it on the top of our mica lamp to dry out. When I felt it time, I sliced it open. It was a holiday card from my friend…apologizing for not returning my calls. I knew then that the card arrived before Christmas, but as I struggled to get out of my car, trying to avoid the unplowed snow, the card had slipped from the rest of the mail. That afternoon, the snow-covered card was concealed…until April.
“Let’s meet up in the summer and take a hike,” he had written.
So, now I feel I know the real essence of loneliness. I have no true male friends up here in the North Country. My wife has always been and still is my best friend…but I don’t have a buddy. A guy to shoot a game of pool with at the local Irish Pub, a friend to bounce writing ideas off, a pal to sit on our deck (or his) and sip a cold beer. We wouldn’t even have to say anything. After all, its common knowledge that men don’t bond easily. We have trouble sharing our personal thoughts orally, but we know each other’s minds. Or so I thought.
But what men can do is sit, side by side, just sharing a beer and assuming we know what the other is thinking.
There is a large blank space in my life now. My wife has to be two people. The woman I married over twenty-five years ago and a mate that I have been close to for six decades. It’s going to be a big job for her, but she’s more than up to the task. The presence of my wife makes these things more tolerable but not less painful.
Me? I can stare at our campfire and remember details of the adventures with my friend. I can watch the ripples on the lake and remember my friend. I can look to the far range of the High Peaks and remember the trails, snow-covered, rain-soaked and sweltering in the August heat…that I hiked with my friend.
Or, on a cold night like this, when the temperature outside is in single digits, our fire-place is crackling and warming our house and my wife is reading quietly beside me on her Kindle, I can sit mutely staring at the flames, throw on another log, watch the flames leap even higher. I am thinking of the holiday card. As the flames rise to the top of the wood stove, the loneliness for this old guy gets deeper.
[Photo is mine]
Next step was to identify the spider. I can’t post something about a spider and keep calling it “spider”. I had to find out what kind of spider it is. I hurry back inside the house and look over my collection of Peterson Field Guides. I don’t have one on spiders, only insects. They’re not the same. They are scientifically classified as being wholly separate. So, I Google “spider” and find a quick identification key intended for the amateur naturalist. [Notice I didn’t use the term “naturist”–those are the people who run around naked.]
patrickjegan 