Dear Friend

Dear Friend

I have thought about writing to you for the last several weeks, ever since I saw you walking down the street. Now that I am putting pen to paper (yes, some of us still amazingly do this), I find myself in the same predicament I used be in so very long ago. When we were briefly, lovers of sorts. Even at that time, I would feel as though I was bursting at the seams with my emotions, my thoughts, of what it would be like to be with you. When it actually happened, when we met, I would be gauche, awkward and uncertain. I am at this moment, neither gauche nor awkward, but certainly uncertain.

Was it forty years ago that we last spoke? I thought that I would never forget our parting words, but I find I have. I remember the occasion, it was my farewell. We greeted and treated each other formally, with no recognition of and no concession for the deep intimacy we had shared. My heart was already broken, and I acknowledged everyone's sad sentiments at my impending departure with what you used to call my plastic smile, the one which hovered only about my mouth and completely avoided my eyes.

"The deep intimacy we had shared". Is there a song about that? I used to be amused each time you said that. I might divulge a new depth of feeling for you, my views on work, children, or ex-husband. Your response often was, "there's a song about that". Sometimes I thought you said it just to annoy or tease me, I couldn't be sure you see.
I don't know whether it was sensible or not, to get involved with someone when the corpse of my marriage was still warm. It wasn't a conscious choice, you were suddenly a part of my life. Looking at me with an intense gaze, telling me you loved me in a soft deep voice; filling me with desire and all sorts of crazy upside-down and downside-up emotions reminiscent of a much younger me. It was you who approached, you who wooed, and you who ended it. At least there was consistency there. You told me you were walking out of my life, but didn't want me to disappear from yours. It took me some time to understand what you meant. At least, I thought I did, because I had no opportunity to check with you. Just as I thought I understood that you ended things because you no longer loved me. Why did I think that? Because when you told me it was over, I asked you if you loved me. You said you would not answer that question. We had had arguments before, you had been angry too, but you had always answered that particular question. At times you had even said you didn't know. But that last time, you were resolute in not answering. I asked you once more, a few days later. You did not budge, instead you said it was for my own good. The pain was excruciating and I thought all you were interested in was continuing our friendship. Now there's certainly ONE song about that which I know of. By a briefly famous singer called Lobo, who sang, "I love you too much to ever start liking you, so don't expect me to be your friend".

Between what you wanted and what was good for me, I chose the latter. I dealt with the pain in the only way I knew, by attempting to return to my life as it was before you entered it. I stopped asking you for favours, even small ones like a glass of water. At meetings, I chose the first available chair, neither seeking to be next to you nor avoiding you. I disappeared at lunchtimes, walking for the entire time so as not to give in to the longing to eat with you. I had not realised how thrilling sharing a meal, sharing laughter, locking gazes and lips at times could be; and was devastated that you did not know how rare and precious was that combination of friendship and desire.
How to undo the habits I had developed with you wasn't hard to think of; it was the actual un-doing which took so much out of me. I became hyper-aware of small changes about you - a different ring tone on your mobile phone or a different after shave lotion. I felt keenly the pain of wondering whether you had found another. Thankfully, you presented no obstacles as I busied myself with the undoing. For example, I could safely shop at my usual grocers or greengrocers knowing there was no chance of bumping into you. For like me, you neither looked for me nor avoided me.

I then made the decision to change career direction. Applying for a job was torture, the interview was hell. Only because I knew that leaving would make permanent what I had hoped might be temporary. When I got the job, I interpreted it as the Gods favouring our separation. Grief has a strange way of making people abandon their sense of free will, of making them see things which are not. I was wrong in connecting God with getting a job, and was silly to cling to the tiniest rays of hope. So it was that when you offered me a ride home one day when I had no transportation, I found my heart beating unnaturally fast. I asked you what it meant, and you said, "I am just giving you a ride, that’s all it is. For the moment". I said to you, "I love you, and this is so hard for me". I didn't get into your car, I ran away and hid in a park, throwing myself onto the grass and weeping to get rid of the unbearable part of my misery. When it was once more bearable, I walked home.
At my farewell party, I publicly thanked you for being the person who had helped me make the sea change. Nobody knew that it meant something different to what it seemed, and you accepted my words silently. If you missed me, I did not know. If my absence left you feeling empty or with a hole in your being, it never showed. If you needed what you called my integrity, I was not aware. If you longed for my voice, my smile, how my body felt when we hugged, if you regretted your decision; you never said so.

It wasn't hard after that, to disappear from your life. Funny that. We had been strangers unaware of each other till we became friends, which was well after we met. And we became strangers again. For a time, I continued to mourn for you. I bought myself small gifts and pretended you had given me them. Then life took me into its busy bosom once more and I surrendered gladly. I forgot your children's birthdays; you probably never knew those details about mine. I moved to a smaller house after my children left home; traded my wagon for a space and fuel efficient car. You might have made similar changes. All external marks of recognition were erased. It is possible we passed each other, but cloaked with anonymity we did not notice.

Did you really no longer love me? Didn't you once say to me, "does anyone ever get over you?" How could we have been denied the one true chance of that kind of happiness? Did I ever tell you how couth and savoury (as opposed to uncouth and unsavoury) I found you? Did I tell you I dreamed of us as a blended family, each hurting burdened half coming together to form a caring and compassionate whole? Did I tell you I rued never having spent a night with you, lamented never having had breakfast together the morning after the night before? Didn’t we tell each other that no-one else had stirred the other so deeply?

My dear friend, I saw you walking into a house as we drove past, three weeks ago. I recognised you immediately, and you behaved very oddly. You suddenly stopped in your tracks, turned around and looked straight at the car as though you had sensed me. But it was possible I had made a mistake. The advantage to being an old lady, a respected old lady I might add, is that people are willing to find out things for me. They found out your name (yes it was you), and that you lived in that house alone. Two streets away; how long you had been there I do not know. There is no irony in that; it simply makes sense that I meet you at the end of my life. Yes I am younger than you, but I have been quite ill for quite some time. I am not afraid, I have indeed led a very hectic and fruitful life and need now to rest. I will not die alone, for my children and their children will be with me when that moment comes. Yesterday afternoon, I saw you walking down my street and it prompted this letter. So my friend, I ask you after decades for a favour. Will you spend some time with me? Will you drive me for a short while and can we hold hands in the car, with our clasped hands sitting on your lap? You can kiss my fingers if you like, I cannot guarantee that I will still not be shy. We cannot go sailing in the yacht you spoke of, but perhaps our grandchildren can, and we can watch. Can we have a cup of tea together, as I cannot drink coffee?
I remain unsure as to whether you really did turn to look at my passing car, whether it was me you were looking for yesterday. I do however wonder this – is it possible that we never stopped loving each other?