She and her son came to visit me just a couple of days before I moved from Northwest Arkansas to Texas. They arrived on their bikes, wearing helmets, a detour from the trail they were riding on from south to north. As her son and my dog played chase, we visited. Basic gossip about the job we’d both recently been laid off from. Small talk about my house, its pending sale, and the short- and long-term prospects for both our lives. Me, moving and starting a new job. She, building a family with her new husband. It was a good little session, filled with laughter and reminiscence, spilling out from the kitchen to the backyard, where my dog ran circles around her son.
And then it was time for goodbye and well wishes. We hugged. She and her son collected their bikes, put on their helmets and pedaled away. I stood out on the front porch and watched them leave. Just as she rounded the corner and disappeared from view, she turned in her seat and waved. I waved back, a bitter-sweet coda to her unexpected visit. I stood there for a while after they’d left, savoring the melancholy of the moment. Twelve years – done – my life – in moving boxes. Heading to a new opportunity, victory in hand, but still nursing the open wounds of defeat. And as I stood there, in the wake of her departure, I realized I’d probably never see her again, the girl I’d worked with for years. A few ups and downs, yes, but we were buddies, teammates who shared an intuitive understanding of right and wrong. And all of it ended with a wave and a bright smile as she rode away.
So, here’s my question. How old were you when you figured out there were people you knew, and you knew you’d never see them again? Or what stage of life were you in when it dawned on you that a routine goodbye, or a simple phone conversation, or any such mundane human interaction, might be the last you’d have with a particular person? And I’m not talking about those who’ve already died. In those cases, the answer is already known. I’m talking about those who are still living, those for which you have yet to imagine the end, but in fact the end has already arrived. Those questions only entered my mind as I got older, when the tally started to add up to a number I could no longer ignore.
I think of them collectively. The kids I grew up with. Fellow students from college and graduate school. People I worked with throughout my career. And since I was a reporter for many years, the mayors, the police chiefs, the activists, the non-profit CEOs, the lawyers and the small business owners. That sprawling cast of characters that came in and out of my life as I dealt with family, work and private matters. At the risk of sounding callous, most of those people don’t matter. We didn’t have much in common then and we probably wouldn’t have much in common were we to meet again. They were part of a time that has come and gone. Wish them well, or not, and leave it be.
But what about the people we liked? What about the people we’d want to see again, but for various reasons doing it seems impossible? I miss those people, and while I’ve forgotten many of the names, I still see their faces. Childhood and elementary, coworkers from those teenage jobs I had during high school, and that crew at Shady Glen up in Manchester, Connecticut. But who I miss the most are the people I met in college. And while I’m fortunate in that I’ve been able to hold onto the closest of them, there are plenty who got away.
These were the ones who were in the larger social circles, the friends of friends, the friends of friends of friends, those people you’d meet at parties or see at the bar and who you had great times with. You shared something, something beautiful – unblemished youth and unchallenged optimism? – but you just weren’t close enough to make it last. The people you walked across campus with, the ones who you sat out on the steps with, cigarettes and coffee before class. The ones you studied with. The ones you worked with, those restaurant jobs where you wore the black and whites. Some of the best times in my life were spent with people whose names I didn’t know, and who probably didn’t know mine. And if once we did know the names, they have since been long forgotten. But we were fighting the same battle, trying to win the same war, and in those circumstances, it’s your common purpose that matters most. You know what they’re doing, and they know the same of you. The name, as odd as it may sound, is secondary.
In my world, encumbered as it is with an outdated romanticism, I imagine that all of those people came out just right. That they finished school, got good jobs and lived the life they wanted to, whatever that turned out to be. I also imagine that at least some of them remember me, the boisterous Texan who always sat on the front row and held up his hand, or as the workhorse busboy who could get you through a bruising dinner-hour rush. I’d be content with either, and if that remembrance of me somehow still lives, with just one person, that would be great cause for joy. But we just never know, and that’s why these questions taunt us.
When I was a young man, I thought it would never end. Life as it was, that is. That the moment I was in would be the moment I would always inhabit. I had no concept of chapters, phases and seasons, that the wheel of the world always rolled, but ever forward and never in reverse. But when at last I assessed what had happened, it all made sense. And when my friend came to visit me just before I moved to Texas, I knew what was at stake. We both did. That’s why I stayed on the porch and watched her leave. It’s why – just before she was out of view and gone forever – she looked over her shoulder and waved. And it's why I waved back. When you know you’ll never see them again, it’s important that you make the last memory a good one.