Please Report

Mood: Reflective
Music: Are You Alright, Lucinda Williams

I joined Facebook in August, and since then have reconnected with people I had previously assumed I would never hear from again. It's nice, knowing that old friends are a click away, that we can check in and keep up with each other's lives. Not resuming a central position in each other's day, but maintaining enough contact to honor the great days we jointly remember. It's a great platform, save for the fact that it makes me miss one of my friends even more.

When I listen to this song, I think about the guy who was my one of my best friends. We grew apart when I got married, him reacting in that peculiar way so many men do when their female friends decide to devote their lives to another man: disappearing. It's an action that speaks libraries of volumes.

I'm cheating a little. We were more than friends once, so many days ago and in such an unofficial manner that it seems a tiny drop of water standing against the whole sea. We were young. It happened. I thought we'd moved on. We moved into a siblingship, talking each other down from so many ledges, serving as each other's life consultants. He specialized in introducing me to new things - not all of them safe (or exactly legal).

I specialized in almost getting him killed. He moved across the country, and when I'd meet his new friends and say my name, their eyes would light up. "Oh, you're her. The one that almost got him killed. Twice."

Three times, actually, if we count that night in Atlanta.

I want to ask him just who I'm supposed to go to when I need a male perspective from someone who doesn't have the bias of being in love with me. I want to ask him why he drives to my parent's house to check in during the holidays, but doesn't send an email to see how I've fared in the five years since we spoke. I want to ask him why it was okay for me to answer the phone at three am to discuss the status of his heart, but it was not okay for him to support me in the largest relationship I've had in my life. What does that mean?

I wish I knew he was okay, and eating well, and still scuba diving, and still protesting against the government, and... still alive, in that way that means so much more than simply breathing in and out.

And it's not just me, KME. There are a few of us; you know who we are.

We miss you. Are you alright?