“I’ll Stay in Touch”

The summer of 2008 approached. Seventh grade was all but over, and Mike had made his share of friends. But one stood out in particular: Esther. She was smart and funny and charming in some ways that he couldn’t really describe. He just knew that he really, really liked her. 

As students signed each others’ yearbooks that May afternoon in Colorado, Mike was concerned. He didn’t want a repeat of last summer. He didn’t want to go weeks and months without hearing a word from his peers. Maybe this summer would be different.

“I’ll stay in touch this summer,” she had told him. That’s what she said. Yet as the days passed, he heard nothing. Weeks slowly dragged by. Oh, and she hadn’t left town. She wasn’t camping somewhere in the Rockies without cell phone reception. 

She just didn’t follow through. And young as he was, to this day it makes him wonder whether anyone will actually keep their word. 

*****

Grandview High School—this time, it would be different. Mike was sure of it. 

Mike and John had met in middle school and now transitioned to the same high school. Hot summers at band camp were spent together, pushing themselves to the absolute limit marching and playing in the hot Sun. And the school years? They spent these together on group projects and parties and commutes and class trips. 

Mike and John had known each other so long, the conversations were repetitive. What else was there to talk about? They knew each other’s parents and goals and dreams and preferences. They played video games together for hours and hours. And movies? There was never a shortage.  

When Mike walked in high school halls, anyone looking for John knew to ask Mike. Mike would know. 

A birthday party for John? Mike wouldn’t miss it. Mike’s music recital was coming up? You can bet John would be there. 

Now, graduation approached. And they were proud of each other. They couldn’t wait to see the other succeed and pursue his career. John especially liked music, while Mike was more interested in left-brained “stuff” that he hadn’t figured out yet. Maybe science or something like that. So many options lay before them, but one thing was sure—they would stay in touch. Or at least… they told each other they would. Although it wasn’t clear at the moment, only years after graduation would they realize that this school transition was their friendships’ death warrant. 

The college applications came. Anxieties and a million responsibilities flooded each of their to-do lists. Life was different now. It wasn’t as much “fun and games” anymore. Packing and moving, making new friends, trying to acclimate to the relentless pressures of adulthood. 

Life wedged between them, dividing their goals, dreams, and plans far from each other. As high school continually faded and became a distant memory, time and space continued to separate them. The once-sure proposition that they were “friends” was just that—an unpracticed proposition. 

Each wedge of life—moves, graduations, health challenges, weddings, starting a family—in subtle ways separated Mike and John. Until, today, only echoes remain—echoes of what once was. A plant which once bloomed in beauty was now consumed by the flame of adult responsibilities. 

As many tools as they had to communicate—Facebook and Twitter and Instagram—they just stopped talking. 

Entering young adulthood, he wondered more intensely whether anyone would actually keep their word. 

*****

Mike graduated college last year. He had worked his tail off, nose to the grindstone. Classes began at 7:30 and usually lasted until noon, giving him two hours to unwind. Then, from 2–11, he was a factory worker. Not exactly his favorite job—but it paid the bills.  

He spent his time in the dorms getting to know as many of his classmates as he could. He depended on them. He protected those Saturday times when he could chunk out long periods to just sit and talk with others. Mike knew that sometimes the only things keeping him sane were friends and long bike rides!

Enter a pandemic. The world was derailed, and relationships suffered. Friends said goodbye. Mike himself had left before the school year was out and went home again. 

Sure, he still talked with some of his friends. A text here or there. A phone call here or there, if he was lucky. But something had changed.

He stopped the fight. He stopped anticipating and hoping and wishing and desiring for human connection the way he used to. He knew by now that those words “I’ll keep in touch” merely served a cheap salve for the conscience. Mike wouldn’t admit it, but he had become a jaded man. Try and try as he might, he had seen others fall through. He had seen himself drift from his friendships over the years to the point where they lay lifeless—irreconcilably broken. Hopeless. 

“I’ll stay in touch,” he spoke to himself mockingly. 

Thoughts of Esther and John infiltrated his mind once more. He remembered some good times. Some moments where he felt so alive and blessed to have friends. Moments when that which filled his heart was not cynicism or selfishness, but genuine care for someone else. 

His conscience whispered to him that maybe he was just as guilty as everyone else. Maybe instead of setting up expectations for other people that they have to meet—instead of being the judge and jury—he could try a different approach. 

One person at a time, he could be different. He could try again. Mike could fight for his friendships—fight with passion and intensity and genuine love. He could pick himself up and cling to hope, that elusive, shiny, beautiful essence that reminded Mike there are still great people out there. That maybe, just past his own cynicism, he could find one real lasting friend. One long-term person to stick it out with him through thick and thin. One person who will do what the others didn’t. Just one person—man or woman, he didn’t care—who would stay in touch. But it would have to start with him. 

As he logged onto Facebook to end the day, he scrolled past a couple of posts. John and Esther had each posted some life updates on their walls. They looked happy. For a split second, he felt an urge to message one of them. 

He hesitated. “It’s too late to restart those friendships,” he thought. “But next time… with my next friend… I’ll keep in touch for sure. They probably don’t want to hear from me anyway.”

Mike turned away from his computer and went to sleep, slightly disappointed that neither John nor Esther had reached out to him in years. John went to bed that night, and Esther did as well. Frightened to make the “first move,” all three—in separate beds and in separate towns—ended that night disappointed for the same reason.