You Can't Make Old Friends
Savor them
Friends,
An old friend of mine passed recently.
When an old friend passes, you can’t replace them with another old friend. You have only a limited number of people who have shared your history, moved through life with you, talked and laughed and pondered the universe and their lives with you.
It’s these cumulative understandings, the sweetness and depth of long familiarity, that give meaning to old friendships.
I spend most of my days now writing — much of it to you — and when I’m not writing, I’m in meetings with colleagues who are decades younger than I am.
My old friend’s passing makes me painfully aware of how little time I spend — and how little effort I’ve made — reaching out to old friends. I’ve taken them for granted, as if they’ll always be there. After all, they always have been there.
But old friendships don’t last forever because neither they nor we last forever. Old friendships have to be appreciated, preserved, and savored when we can.
Starting today, I'm going to invite them to join me for breakfast or lunch a few times a week. Or if they’re far away (years ago, I left most of my old friends on the East Coast), I’m going to phone them, maybe even FaceTime them, and make it a point to see them when I’m next on the other coast.
I remember my father telling me that the hardest part about growing old was losing his old friends.
I didn’t quite understand what he meant. I asked him: “Why can’t you just make new friends?” He explained that he had tried to make new friends, and had succeeded somewhat. But he couldn’t make an old friend, and there was a difference.
I didn’t understand him then. I do now.
My guess is that you have literally hundreds of old friends, and not just the ones spanning the four decades of your political career.
Of course you have thousands of new friends, at least as far as we are concerned. We've shaken your hand and talked briefly, and everything about your engaging of us reeks of friendship.
So like thousands of other unsubstantiated friends, we raise a glass to you and all those lucky ones for whom the connection is more than fleeting.
I am so sorry for your losses, realized and pending, and for all of ours.
I find myself surprised, sometimes, which deaths catch me by the throat.
My most recent friends are the ones whose loss I most dread. With reason, as they are all in their 80s, 90s, or even 100s, as well as wise and brave and witty.