when it comes to memories
I remember when we were all twelve years old, sitting at our regular table at Nobel, Tracy told us something her parents told her: "When you're at this age, your life revolves around your friends. You would do anything for them; you would live and die for them. But as you get older, things change. You start to care about your career, your spouse, your own life. You get too busy for friends." And then I distinctly remember Tracy adding: "Isn't it weird? Like, apparently we get more selfish as we get older?"
Ever since college began, I have heard people talk about outgrowing their friends, shedding company like clothing that no longer fit like they used to. And maybe it happens. Life occurs, paths diverge, interests change. Where once we knew the paragraphs of each other's lives -- every parenthesis and footnote -- we now scramble to fill in blanks. We swing between the spaces with intermittent webcam dates, messages, phone calls, handwritten letters and postcards in the mail. Thinking of you, we say, like tourists on a holiday. Wish you were here.
It came to the point when every "I love you" seemed more like sentimental obligation than all else, and upon reflection I realized: something needs to change. Seeing Tammy for the first time in years made me realize what precisely I have missed in her, the qualities one can only pick up on by actually being with someone rather than dwelling on a memory. It has also made me realize the way relationships evolve, how we grow in ways we don't realize until we reach a point where we can compare them to how things used to be. In some ways, I am relieved. Whenever we meet again I am reassured to see what has endured from what I remember of you, but I need to act on the possibility that when changes occur, relationships can breathe and live and alter with them.
People aren't memories, and spaces should be filled.