Dear Friend
Dear friend,
I’m sorry.
I meant to ask how you were doing. I meant to ask about your family and Christmas and New Years’ and the new semester. I really did.
All week, I rehearsed the conversation in my head. I practiced in the mirror, in the shower, in the quiet moments between classes. I thought of all the ways I’d show you, for once, that I care.
But then we sat down and your eyes searched mine and you asked me, the way I knew you would, how I’m doing. I knew I should have practiced a better answer, but no matter how much I practice, there is no short answer. You probably knew that.
I started to tell you my stories, and you kept following me through all the twisting threads. When I looked up again, suddenly our time evaporated. I swear, I thought the bells had just struck fifteen minutes. Time marched on without us, and we went our separate ways again.
You were the first person in a long time to ask how I was doing and want to know the answer. You listened. You were the first person in a long time to listen.
We used to have slow, ambling conversations, where the pauses would fill the room and draw our universe-searching souls back to earth. Now we just talk about how busy we are. I talk about myself to prove that I’m busy too.
I tell you about all the things that I’m doing to prove to you that I can do them. That I can do them and make them look easy. I stack up lists of all my tasks and titles so I can prove that I am everything you think I am.
You know me. I want to know you.
I really want to know you.
But sometimes I forget to ask.
This isn’t just about me. If it was just about me, I would be as well off talking to the mirror. I come to you because I want to know you.
Sometimes language fails me in showing that.
Some days my pain makes me a better listener, and some days it makes me outright self-absorbed. Some days my pain pries open my peripheral vision and for once I can see the million stories of the people around me. But some days my pain turns into blinders. Some days I forget about the depth and realness of all the lives I see.
Dear friend, accept my apology. An apology alongside a thank you.
Thank you for being here even when I forget to ask how you are.
Thank you for being here even when I can’t see past myself.
Thank you for teaching me how to love. Because the more you love me, the more I learn to love the people around me, in my own imperfect, unpolished, disorderly way.
And, next time, I swear, I’ll ask how you are doing.
