Estranged

Late one evening in Cocoa Beach I was having a glass of wine with my friend and her sister after Fred had gone to bed. Somehow the conversation drifted to the idea of friends or family members who have become estranged. It’s not a word I’ve ever given much thought to.

Most of the old friends I’ve lost have been through carelessness. You mean to call, of course, but there’s all that life stuff going on, and before you know it years have passed. We didn’t have Facebook when I graduated from high school or college to make it so easy to retain at least an illusion of connection. That’s an excuse, of course, but it’s one of those excuses that works a little bit because it’s true. I’ve squandered more good people than I like to admit.

That night we were talking about how silly it was to let one or two stray comments end a long friendship. We were talking about a relationship that ended because someone said something that rubbed the other person the wrong way, and it burrowed in like a tick and festered. How easy it would have been to have a different ending, we told each other. We ended the evening laughing, declaring we were all now estranged and making plans for the next day.

I went to bed and didn’t give the conversation any more thought. The next afternoon, my friend of over thirty years and I were sitting way out on the end of the pier at the Tiki Bar, watching pelicans dive for fish and surfers paddle out to catch waves. “Whatever happened to your old friend [who I’ll call] Amanda?” Kathy asked me.

I told her I had no idea. Come to think of it, we were estranged. We had been close, things had happened, and we had both felt the need to close the door on the friendship. At least, that’s how I remember it. In retrospect, I am not sure how mutual the decision was. Nevertheless, the door closed more than a decade ago, and over the years neither of us ever knocked on it.

It was a lazy afternoon at the beach. Kathy had known Amanda too, so she said, “I’ll just look her up on Facebook and see what she’s up to.”

Sometimes that’s a good thing to do. We’ve probably all looked up an old friend from our childhoods just to see how things turned out. I’ve reconnected with a number of people I’m happy to have back in my life. Many of my old students have found me online, and I love to see who they’ve become as adults.

That afternoon on the pier, though, Kathy got quiet. “You’re not going to like this,” she said. And if you are reading this post, you’ve probably read enough of my other essays to know that what we found was Amanda’s obituary. She died two years ago, apparently from some sort of cancer.

So there’s that. I still haven’t figured out how it makes me feel. I’m sad, of course. A vibrant, joyful life was cut short. I don’t think I feel regret, but maybe that’s just bluster. I feel tender toward that thirty-something-year-old me, doing the best that she could. And yet, it turns out it is different to be estranged from an old friend who is going about her life in the world and an old friend who has died without your ever knowing she was dying.

Kathy and I sat there quietly on the pier, watching the waves wash in and out. Then we paid the bill and headed off down the beach, two old friends, as the late afternoon sun sank inexorably toward the water, and the waves erased our footprints as we walked on.

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