Friendship: A Prose Poem

They were good friends and their friendship was unique, although the description that follows might sound rather mundane. You will have to decide for yourself.

Whether or not they were best friends didn’t matter. She would have liked to look up the etymology of the word ‘friend’ (she knew it was Germanic, though) as well as ‘amigo’ (she knew it came from Latin). When she thought about word origins, she wanted to learn about them as far back as possible. He wasn’t all that interested in those things. Maybe they even bored him. It wasn’t always easy to figure out what he was thinking.

He was her best male friend, whether or not he knew that. As for female friends, in her own country she could only think of one she had in college, which was a long time ago. It was next to impossible to have friends where she was from. It was sad, but she didn’t trust anybody. In the end, things always went awry. She didn’t blame anybody, not even herself. It was just the way her society was structured. Money over people. She couldn’t change that.

They had known each other for so long that his friendship was essential to her sense of security, as odd as that sounds. Well, maybe it wasn’t all that strange if you think that when you invest so much time in something or someone (time being equal to years in your life), giving up that investment means giving up a large part of your life. She would feel a bit adrift if that time were erased. 

If more people felt that way, perhaps friendships would be stronger, last longer. It isn’t a matter of living in the past, because things learned, places seen, words said can still be present if you have your friend. Objects, on the other hand, are not much more than tokens of a former existence, mute place-holders of little value. You don’t ever love objects like you love a long-time friend. Some things might break or get lost, but some people you must hold onto, despite the cost. (Even though that rhymes, it’s still true.)

For her, there were two moments of importance: 1969 and 1979. A loss in one year and a gain in the other. Of what, it doesn’t matter. Of the decade in between, nothing remained and also doesn’t matter. That is why it was not part of the friendship and thus is completely irrelevant to this story. Some forgetting is good. That leaves more room for the important remembering.

They got together when they could, although it wasn’t really all that often.

They were always careful not to fight, even when each pulled hard on the hawsers that moored them to opposite ports. They wanted to believe that they weren’t, had never been, ships passing in the night. She refused to fight over the hawsers, would not allow things to end in war. Like a good friend had once written, she liked to say, “I’m cultivating patience in the gray-green lichens of Maine.”

It had worked. She had. It helped that lichens also grew in other parts of the world.

They both liked to do some of the same things.

Museums. They both enjoyed going to museums, mostly with art collections, but occasionally they went to a museum of natural history or one that dealt with culture. Science museums were not on their list of places to go. They had no time for numbers or machines. They didn’t go together, either, at least not often. Both liked to do things like that alone. It was easier to think. Talking in a place like a museum was actually counterproductive. It was hard to concentrate when somebody was chatting or whispering in your ear. A museum was not a social event.

Historic places were another favorite. The list was endless, but rarely involved a battle site. Mostly they included an example, or examples, of interesting architecture. Military monuments were out. Soldiers on horses all looked the same. Walls with names were boring, too, unless a person had a relative listed on one.

Neither liked war, but her family had gone toward one and his had fled from it. She wondered if that mattered, the direction of each side, crossing the ocean that way. Both knew, however, that war had been the background for their lives and were glad not to have ever been in the middle of one. They were the lucky ones. They knew and had learned that lesson.

On the other hand, cemeteries were mildly interesting. She liked them more because she liked reading the names and dates, then imagining the stories behind them. She’d also read a few stories about legends or superstitions associated with the headstones. The ones with pets on them made her the saddest, though. He didn’t talk much when he went, so she never knew what he was thinking and didn’t ask. If she had, he wouldn’t have answered.

Quiet places to eat, with a view if possible, were also something they both liked. Noisy bars or restaurants were deplorable, to be avoided. Being surrounded by bellowing drunks takes a certain type of resistance and neither had it. Both of them had been known to ask a waiter to see about turning down the music, if it happened to be too loud. Naturally, happy hours were to be avoided at all cost.

They were not fans of shouting. Books and reading were more enjoyable to both of them, although they were not the same thing. In other words, they liked books and each bought more than they needed. In time, they slowed down and she began to listen to audiobooks or read the occasional ebook. He wouldn’t go near the latter two formats, but continued to read the traditional printed form. Both preferred it, but she was more flexible. Sometimes they read the same things, but as time went on, their choices began to diverge.

Music was another thing they both liked, but their preferences were different for the most part. One preferred jazz, classical music, the occasional opera. The other preferred folk music and certain types of contemporary composition. Both would rather die than listen to heavy metal. He probably didn’t even know what it was.

They both liked to write, but she might have liked writing more. They wrote different things, though. He was drawn to essays, nonfiction, chronicles. Serious, critical writing, with some dark humor mixed in. She wrote poetry from time to time, but her favorite genre was fiction. If she could, she said, she’d write a story a day. Of course it wasn’t a real option, but still she tried to write at least a story a month. She didn’t plan to publish any of them, but she liked the sense of accomplishment when she finished one. Maybe one day she would put a set of stories in a book and self-publish.

Neither liked crowds, as has already been mentioned, but they both reacted to different sorts of crowds. When a public bus was full, he would complain the whole trip. She would say nothing. In a crowded plaza with tourists swarming and gaping, she would clam up, hold her breath, and move quickly toward the nearest way out. He understood that.

They used to get together more often, but it was less often now and that was fine. People can move in different directions and still be friends.

She could talk to him when she was concerned about her daughter. She was worried for several reasons, justified or not. The young woman’s lack of health insurance was one. When her daughter occasionally lost her temper, she worried that it would create problems later in life. They had trouble communicating sometimes. It was probably similar to what a lot of parents experience with their children, but it was still hard. He would listen to her and occasionally offer advice.

He also had a daughter and would sometimes mention her when he was concerned, but it wasn’t often. He kept his feelings inside much more than she did. Even though she was his friend, she often didn’t know what he was thinking. She did know how much he missed his daughter and would have liked to see her more often.

She hated television. Really hated it. Part of the reason was the excess of commercials, but also there was nothing on TV to watch. He watched it, but might spend a lot of time complaining about what was on or talking back to the figures on the screen. She couldn’t figure out why he even turned it on.

They both had a favorite sport, but it was not the same one. Neither watched the matches or games, although they often checked the results. She was very happy when her favorite team won, but had gotten out of the habit of following individual players’ statistics. 

They used to have a few friends in common, but not any more. Neither went out much because they felt it was too expensive and both were fairly frugal. Not cheap, frugal. There was a difference. Once in a while some people got together at somebody’s house and that was enough. She was a pretty good cook and also enjoyed trying new recipes. He was better at whipping some minimal dish up and especially at cleaning the kitchen and dishes afterward.

They both liked animals, but in very different ways. He watched from a distance. She liked to pet them or watch up close. Except snakes. She disliked snakes. And bats, although she was trying to get over her fear of them. If she could pet an animal, she would. Goats, sheep, llamas, pigs, rabbits, parrots, cats and dogs - she liked touching all of them, and was always mindful of not hurting them. He was more content to watch. She was fascinated by unusual fauna of all sorts, but he seemed bored by most of them.

She liked to garden, but he found it tedious. She didn’t care. She had enough to do tending her own.

——

Some people thought they should have been married, but they were wrong. They had both tried that, and it hadn’t worked. 

Their daughter agreed. Things were better now that they were friends.

Sometimes good things come in untied packages.