Moving Closer

The morning I learned my best friend, Anne, was moving away started out as an ordinary Saturday. I was sitting on the bleachers next to her husband, Jim, watching my seven-year-old son and their six-year-old daughter paddle around the indoor pool. It was February in Howell, Michigan -- 10 degrees outside, stifling near the pool.  The smell of chlorine was overpowering.

“Did Anne tell you we might be going back to North Carolina?” he asked. He had a job interview. If that went well, they’d be gone by summer’s end.

“Anne really wants to go,” he said. I felt my world crumble. Traitor, I hissed to myself as I thought Anne’s low tolerance of Michigan winters. Just when was she going to tell me? Didn’t I deserve to know?

We met at the library on a summer day. Anne was elegant with cropped blonde hair and a sweeping linen skirt. Our sons played a computer game together. They became fast friends. So did we. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been looking for a friend, too.

Over the next five years we grew to rely on one another. I dropped off Popsicles and ginger ale when the flu hit her house. She picked up my son when he spiked a fever at daycare and I was two hours away on a field trip. There were milestone birthdays, impromptu family picnics and so many long talks. She laughed easily. My energy was renewed when I was with her. And so, on that day in February while the kids frolicked, I felt miserable.

Yes, I know Americans are a transitory bunch with many of us moving about every five years. Children say goodbye to best friends and so do parents. I just never thought it would happen to me. A veteran mover -- Anne’s first was from Denmark to America when she was in her 20s -- Anne said,  “It’s always harder for the one who is left behind.” It was true.

As spring turned to summer and her moving day loomed, our once-breezy, fun conversations turned painful. “Oh, I’m really going to miss you!” I would sigh. Anne would counter with an irritated, “It’s not like I’m dying, I’m still here.” Anger, jealousy and sometimes an unbearable feeling of confusion left me feeling isolated. I kept thinking, Why is this happening.?

Then, six weeks before Anne left, I wrote in my journal, “I can feel angry and alone, or I can reach out.” I listed 40 happy memories of our friendship. Here’s No. 12: Anne’s challenge to me an overthinker to “seize the day and have no regrets”. Or No. 16: “Wearing a Prada jacket Anne found me at a thrift store and getting a compliment every time I wore it.” No. 29: “Baking Christmas cookies with the kids.” No. 36: “Anne’s advice on a new suit, shoes and make-up for my first my-baby’s-in-preschool job interview.” Reading the list yielded something unexpected: healing.

I learned that while grieving I could also recall the joy in our friendship. I discovered my gratitude. More importantly, I found the courage to say goodbye. Now, two years later, Anne and I talk often. Last fall I took a road trip to North Carolina. Her family vacationed in Michigan this summer. Just last week, she coached me through 45 minutes of packing for an important business trip in New York City. Our close connection remains.

On my last day in Anne’s kitchen we stood talking just like many other mornings. “No tears,” she said, so we both held them back while she related something she’d told her son the day before.

Life, she said, is like a train. As we ride it, we see some people off in the distance. We know they’re there, but we never meet them. Others are acquaintances who nod or say “hello” to us. A rare few sit with us as the train rolls along. We know their families and their lives. “I’m so glad you sat next to me on that train,” she said. I knew then that we’d be riding it together for a very long time.

When I gave her the list of happy memories she promised to read it when she got settled. I knew it was time to go. Blackeyed Susans drooped in the heat as I walked to my car. Anne watched from the front steps. Although I had imagined that moment with pain and dread, I suddenly felt light. As I drove away I yelled to Anne, “I am remembering happy!” and we both laughed.   

Cyndi Lieske is a freelance writer living in Michigan.

~Cyndi Lieske