To All the Friends I Had Before

Keepsakes From What Couldn't Last

I pass by the parking lot you called me from once —to tell me the big news —and then, we both cried. There’s another parking lot on the other side of town, where we laughed and laughed until you peed your pants. We cried then, too. When the weather is warm, and I have the time — I’ll run the trail we used to trek together. You’d push me to go fast. To keep going. We’d dream. Imagine ourselves with families. Encourage one another. I think of you in your old neighborhood — the playdates, the coffee, and the sun shining through your windows playing shadows on the floor. Yesterday, I wanted to cook that meal you'd made for me. But, I lost the recipe, again. Now, I can't text to ask you — not anymore. I remember when we’d both have a long workday, we’d meet to pray on the bench outside the building. I’d pour my heart out to you. You would, too. I can’t forget the adventures we’d go on, the recklessness we’d display — the lack of fear. We were young, naive, and ready to take on the world.

And then of course, there’s social media — the cruelest of time capsules. It taunts me with memories of those newborn days, of life even, before marriage, and of all that time we spent at Starbucks when there wasn’t yet another coffee shop to go to. It brings me closer to you than I sometimes want to be. Though I dare not delete a thing.

The kids ask about you. They’ll see an old picture and wonder, “Who was that again?”

I’m tempted to lie. To shield them from what was — like I can often do. But, I don’t hate you. I won’t. And, pretending you didn’t exist feels like I’m betraying the good.

Bitterness may have been easier. Or, even resentment. They numb the pain, don’t they? Like blame. Or, pointing the finger, does too. It's a weak attempt at forgetting what ought to be remembered and cherished. Anger consumes it all, when we let it.

And then, there’s this question of, “If only…”

If only I hadn’t said what I did.
If only we still worked together.
If only the pace of our lives could find some sort of matching rhythm.
If only you had fought a little harder. If I had.

How does this even begin to serve me? I know — it’s only armor.

These are the things we do to protect ourselves from the truth —
this grief I still feel means, you mattered.

I guess what I’m saying is, despite the temptation to — I don’t want to be numb. Numbness blinds us. It doesn’t give us access to what releases us from our past.

Gratitude. Or, acceptance. Not sure either can exist without the other.

And so, here I am, years later, still holding this vessel of memories—each one an echo of the affection I carried for you. Now more than ever, I know what I need to do.

They say not every friendship is for every season. I told my own child this just last week. And yet, the memories don’t feel like something to pack away, like an old pair of jeans I can’t decide whether to wear again. This friendship wasn’t something I wore — it was something that made its mark on me. Every fading moment — a memento; a treasure. So, I pull this collection of keepsakes out — not to store, but to sift through.

And, what I find is — a friend who wasn’t afraid to take risks and made me feel safe enough to take risks, too. I find a friend who lived free, didn’t care what anyone thought, and embodied joy effortlessly. I find a friend whose loyalty is shown through in everything she did, and who saw through and really knew me. I hadn’t ever shared an inside joke with someone until you. I find a friend who used her voice with boldness — who taught me how to say what is true. So many other friends, more — who mattered and who left an impression on this heart that’s not easily removed.

You took my hand and walked alongside me. If only for a time.

Thank you. Thank you for who you were. Thank you for what you left me.

I’ve changed since we last saw each other. Most likely, you have, too.

We’ve moved on, haven’t we? But I’ll never forget you. I never want to.

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