Dear friend,
We have known each other so long that I had to write you this letter. I thought about just fading into the background and letting you think that my busy life in the city was what kept me away -- maybe that would have been kinder -- but I feel I owe you this after decades of friendship.
When we were kids, our friendship was easy. Whether or not we saw each other much throughout the year didn’t matter because whenever it came time to sign up for softball, I knew we’d be on the phone the day the form came in the mail, begging our parents to coordinate the rest of our siblings’ schedules so that we could be on the same team. I knew that when it came time for the weekend away in the cabin in the woods, that you would appear with your sleeping bag.
We have been taking steps in opposite directions since before we were even in high school. I marched away from our hometown in search of bigger things; you crept back from college, back to town, and disappeared back into your parents’ house.
The distance between those paces used to be something we could cross fairly easily, shouting across the divide, picking up the phone, meeting at a diner late in the night. But I’m not talking about miles; I’m talking about space. I’m talking about how our friendship doesn’t click anymore.
For years after you returned home, I tried to coax you out. I made you business cards, sent you job postings, offered to proofread your resume, but you have stayed locked in the same job I had when I was sixteen. We’re 32 now.
I don’t judge you for this stagnation; I worry about you. I worry about how unhappy you seem at times. I worry that you can’t support yourself. I worry about what will happen when your mother wants to retire, or, god forbid, that something happens to her.
I’m not sure how to help you because you don’t seem to want to make any moves unless the perfect situation comes along. But you’ve been waiting for that perfect situation for a decade now.
You never accept my invitations to anything outside your comfort zone, which seems to have a 5-mile radius. I only see you when I return to our hometown. On our last visit, you spent most of the time complaining about drama at your job, but you turned down every solution I came up with.
It’s not fun for me anymore. I’ve been hanging in there for a while because of loyalty. Because of history.
And that’s probably why I’ll never really send you a letter like this. I’ll dutifully show up to the cabin; I don’t know if I could ever stop that. But friend, I wish for better for you.
Love,
Your Oldest Friend
We have known each other so long that I had to write you this letter. I thought about just fading into the background and letting you think that my busy life in the city was what kept me away -- maybe that would have been kinder -- but I feel I owe you this after decades of friendship.
When we were kids, our friendship was easy. Whether or not we saw each other much throughout the year didn’t matter because whenever it came time to sign up for softball, I knew we’d be on the phone the day the form came in the mail, begging our parents to coordinate the rest of our siblings’ schedules so that we could be on the same team. I knew that when it came time for the weekend away in the cabin in the woods, that you would appear with your sleeping bag.
We have been taking steps in opposite directions since before we were even in high school. I marched away from our hometown in search of bigger things; you crept back from college, back to town, and disappeared back into your parents’ house.
The distance between those paces used to be something we could cross fairly easily, shouting across the divide, picking up the phone, meeting at a diner late in the night. But I’m not talking about miles; I’m talking about space. I’m talking about how our friendship doesn’t click anymore.
For years after you returned home, I tried to coax you out. I made you business cards, sent you job postings, offered to proofread your resume, but you have stayed locked in the same job I had when I was sixteen. We’re 32 now.
I don’t judge you for this stagnation; I worry about you. I worry about how unhappy you seem at times. I worry that you can’t support yourself. I worry about what will happen when your mother wants to retire, or, god forbid, that something happens to her.
I’m not sure how to help you because you don’t seem to want to make any moves unless the perfect situation comes along. But you’ve been waiting for that perfect situation for a decade now.
You never accept my invitations to anything outside your comfort zone, which seems to have a 5-mile radius. I only see you when I return to our hometown. On our last visit, you spent most of the time complaining about drama at your job, but you turned down every solution I came up with.
It’s not fun for me anymore. I’ve been hanging in there for a while because of loyalty. Because of history.
And that’s probably why I’ll never really send you a letter like this. I’ll dutifully show up to the cabin; I don’t know if I could ever stop that. But friend, I wish for better for you.
Love,
Your Oldest Friend
