Coffee date, soon . . .

When you are loved by a writer eventually, she is going to write about you. It could be in a book or a blog post, or a journal entry in a tattered notebook. I’m guilty of doing all three. I have even typed notes into my phone, capturing a moment before it slips from my memory. It’s a “writer thing” I suppose.

This morning as I began my walk, my cell pinged. A quick glance revealed a long text from a dear friend, “Can’t face saying goodbye . . .” I knew immediately that I would not see Phyllis before she left town. I stopped reading and tucked my phone back into my pocket. I’d sit with the message when I got home.

I had known for months that she was moving. I was certain we’d have one more coffee together before she headed out of state. Each time I tried to make a date she was busy, justifiably overwhelmed with so much to do. So, I wasn’t surprised by her text. I wasn’t mad or upset either.

I know Phyl’s heart and the depth of our friendship. She doesn’t need to prove herself with one more coffee. When I read the entire message, her heartfelt praise for my recent writing achievement got me all teary-eyed. Without a doubt, I would have cried had we met this week. Phyl had spared me, she knows I hate goodbyes.

She’s not the first friend to move away, and she won’t be the last. Friends are thinking long and hard about their retirement plans. There are grandkids to be near, big cities to escape, quiet towns to explore, and finances to consider. And then they go. Social media keeps us connected, and I visit when invited. But I miss the ease of proximity, impromptu drinks, and dinners. Time spent together has become an even more precious commodity.

I want to be light and so okay with these changes. My friends are happy after all. When I miss them, I am reminded that the absence I feel means I’ve been lucky, I’ve had and continue to have great friendships.

Sitting on my porch steps now, I think of Phyllis busy with last-minute tasks that will surely fill her remaining days in California. She leaves on Sunday. I’ll wake that morning and imagine her standing in her driveway saying goodbye to her home, to her city. She’ll cry a lot, but also feel relief, I think, for having survived an ending. I’ll send a text to wish her safe travels, and to say I miss her already. I’m letting go of something I love, something I had counted on, coffee dates with Phyl, forever.

I sigh and consider the friends who have moved away in the past year or so. In a moment of envy, I romanticize their fresh starts and glamorize their new adventures. I resist feeling left behind. Before my internal whining gets the best of me, I come back to reality. I’ve had many visits with girlfriends and couples who have found happiness elsewhere. Like magic, we pick up exactly where we left off, our affection and familiarity are unchanged by the distance between us. Smiling now, I dream of a plan to see Phyl, a coffee date in a place I’ve never been. We laugh and laugh and tell our stories. I envision a future post on social media, our joyous faces captioned, “Look at us! As though no time has passed.”

If you are loved by a writer, she’s always going to write you into a happy ending.

Always . . .

Xoc