In Wilderness
(Photo by Kim Pilea)
Wandering the street of New York City, a familiar face reminds me of someone I know — long time ago. She was dashing across Time Square against the chromatic light. She still looked the same we’ve met before. Her natural black hair is still above her shoulder, touching the tip of her ears. She still wears an old fashioned dress of 80’s and a sweater, carrying an attaché full of office documents. Entwining the rush hour crowd, my heart begun to speed up as I wonder what will happen if she noticed me, whether we’d say “hi” to each other or just have an awkward, frozen moment: where two women who were once the best of friends and now couldn’t even say anything and acknowledge each other’s existence.
She kept her head down and gaze on the sidewalk. As the moment passed I could’ve reached out, tapped her on the arm or even touched her hand as we usually do. But I didn’t. Breath slowed. And began a conversation I’d played out in my thick head and start asking the same questions I had over the past years. This has been crazy, I wanted to say. But wait… I should say I’m sorry for everything. No, that wasn’t quite right. Can we be the best of friends as we are before? That’s exactly what I wanted to happen, a long time ago. That’s certainly and genuinely true. But I wasn’t sure if she would want that. Too much had happened in the intervening years. We are no longer the young playful teens. We aged, facing our lives and conquering our fears separately. How are you? I wondered how her life was unfolded. Is she happy? How her work is going. How are you? I watched as she slowly receded into the chromatic light of Time square, New York City.
This is a story about regret. About stupidity, stubbornness, rigidity, pride and emotional stringiness. About the way misunderstanding and distrust, if left unattended, will sprout and will strangle the innate beauty and the very true within us. About the way we are often too hard on each other. We expect too much, find fault too easily, and forgive a little. Most of all, this is a story of a friendship that lost in the wilderness.
Phenelope and I met in college. I was a young journalist, she was a young literary artist. We shared common interests since we are both an artist and fond of writing. We recognize in each other a shared sensitivity, humor, creativity and all tempered of a fun-loving streak. Our friendship was one of the fast and furious romances, marked by oversharing and intimacy. But it lasts, it deepens. The warmth makes it last until its very savory. We shared our histories with each other—our complicated relationships with our loved ones, our long-term goals, our romantic travails and our secret sorrows.
We shared our manuscripts together—in what is perhaps the ultimate measure of trust. We laughed and cried together. We are in each other’s arm during our lows and highs. We shared each other’s success and downfalls. I thought I would know Phenelope forever—until the very breath of mine. Isn’t that what we think of our BFF’s? I remember when my ill mother was bedridden. I was with Phenelope—sleepless, weeping and telling her about my mother’s goodness. Until the day of her burial it was Phenelope’s shoulder where I petrified and weep. If I had projected our friendship in the future, I would have imagined us growing old together, sharing the stresses of marriage and parenting, giving a message on each other’s children’s wedding, celebrating our successful careers, mourning our losses, holding each other tenderly through this journey, this lifetime.
One day, in the opacity of light seeing through my window as where I am seated, my best friend Phenelope walked out the door leaving the words repeatedly flashing on my mind right up to this moment. In resentment she spoken “I wish you had let me get closer to you. Friendship is not a one man battle. You would’ve let me walked in the wilderness with you”. From that day on no shadows of Phenelope resides in me. We never talked, no phone calls, no letters, no communications at all. I’ve made peace with myself. I’ve told myself that I’m better off without her. Our friendship left unnourished for far too long. Years passed since that impulsive, fateful flurry of hurt feelings and anger we have spoken against each other. There was no betrayal, there were only two proud, sensitive women not yet matured enough to decipher that was existed between them — however imperfect — was worth more than a lifetime and is something irreplaceable.
I should’ve realized that the strongest friendships are the ones that have with stood the test of confrontation. It’s difficult, I know. It is too scary, it may cause a terrible shake of the voice, a trembling of the hands, and makes our heart beats faster but through confrontation is where we allow ourselves to be seen and known. A friend is always late. Another friend forgets our birthdays or our party celebrations. We hold our precious friends to standards we couldn’t possibly live up to ourselves. And then, peculiarly, in a flash of self-righteous indignation, a friend for life becomes a stranger. But if our friends are the family we choose, then wouldn’t stand to reason that our old friends must be treasured? And yet so many friendships fall apart over the pettiest resentments. And now here I am, too silly to realize that I in wilderness I had lost my best friend.
