There should be a better word than sorrow for friends parting.
Cherished friends, to whom you’ve subtly grown close, over a surprisingly few moments of connection: that one morning perched on the balcony of your regular restaurant sharing toast and poached eggs, the sting of the winds tempered by a spring sun; or the wintry evening lost on the way home when you huddled close, and serendipitously stopped for one drink that turned into three into a snug conversation on your couch that stretched into twilight, held together by confessions of self-doubt, insecurity, boredom of domestic life, and the vacillating dreams for the future. And suddenly you are close.
And before the imminence of their departure, you are stunned by the depth to which your affection has taken root, by the acrimony towards a story cut short, by the terror of a life staled in their absence. Tearing them from your life feels all so wretched, even as the pain is soothed by your memories of them. It is, in the words of Emmerson, a delicious torment.
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All around me, friends old and new, people are leaving.
It’s the Faustian bargain of a nomad life. When you uproot your life at every landmark, relationships diminished are inexorable as a waning moon. You are accustomed to heartbreak as a child, and when you grow up you become avoidant at best. At worst, you withdraw into a carapace so that nothing can hurt you.
In twenty years of stability, I have learned that the only constant in life is Change. Apathetic, inevitable, inescapable change. All good things end. All love dwindle. All longings abate. Very soon, brunch dates over Skype are canceled. Messages take longer and longer to be responded. That fracture in your lives filled by other people. Few friendships survive time and distance – a thousand phone calls are not worth the consolation of a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a squeeze in the hand, in your moment of need.
And that makes these ephemeral moments all the more precious. Those temporary bonds, fervent, manic, and without requite.
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