On Friendship and Memorial Day

As I stood next to my father along the shores of Lake Michigan two years ago on the Sunday before Memorial Day, I sensed it would be the last Memorial Day weekend we would ever spend together. The steel blue lake shimmered with shattered images as we gazed quietly into its uncertain depths. I traced the horizon with my fingertips and longed to dismantle the boundary separating air from water. A light breeze gently lifted the waves, parted their frothy edges and merged them with my heavy questions. The blazing sun burned a hole in the dirty sand where doubts could be cast and buried. I glanced over at his impassive silhouette with its deeply etched lines. The corners of his eyes reflected the most life and fragility. They were the part of him that scared me the least. The seagulls flapped their wings in clumsy arcs and glided soundlessly overhead. I hesitated then tucked my arm into his arm in an attempt to breach the distance separating us. It was a useless gesture, but I have never known how to give up on the people I love. My father continued his quiet investigation of the grainy scene before him, scanning the footprints and garbage strewn haphazardly on the finely ground rock. Was my soul as ancient as this coarse rock? Had it settled and then resettled into layers? Did he hope to find it there, weathered and dependent on another soul? He refused to acknowledge my feeble token or break his intense reverie. The late afternoon light diffused his intentions and cast a soft glow around his harsh frame. I wondered why we couldn’t let it go. I gripped his arm and held on, anticipating he would eventually let go, but he was tireless and unbending. When did our arguments lose their purpose and substance? What were we waiting for on this fragmented beach with its ancient stories of change and transformation? It would only be a matter of time before he would force my hand and resolve. I lost him that Memorial Day weekend, and it has taken two years to regain the part of myself that left with him.       

I spent this past Memorial Day weekend in the warm presence of my friends and family. Memorial Day always is tinged with sadness for me because I instinctively remember a dear childhood friend who died almost 6 years ago while serving in Operation Iraqi Freedom. His death left me in a stricken state for quite some time. The thin line separating the living from the dead no longer appeared so ethereal or ephemeral. Memorial Day also marks the last summer I spent with my father. After more than two decades of castigations and quarrels, we parted ways two years ago and severed all contact. No human being has damaged my soul as much as my father, not even the man who sexually assaulted me. We will never reconcile, and I have grown to accept his permanent absence. Nonetheless, I dread the Memorial Day weekend because I know I will spend the extended holiday thinking about my beloved friend and father. So when a close friend told me he was hosting a bbq in his backyard, I jumped at the opportunity to surround myself with individuals I love and admire. My friends are the most important people in my life, next to my son and family. It’s hardly a novel revelation, but now that I’m in my 30’s, I realize more than ever I am nothing without authentic and supportive friends by my side. It’s a small and select group, and I can count the number of friends I have on one hand. I don’t believe in quantity, but I do swear by quality, and I am fortunate to have such a tight knit inner circle. I have known them for a large portion of my life, and I can’t imagine getting through the rough chapters of this mortal existence without relying on their comforting words for strength and perspective. I befriended some of them before I met my father and they have stuck around much longer. 

We sat around Saturday evening, drinking beer and wine (a 40 for me because I know how to keep it classy), listening to music and eating a simple dinner prepared by my friend’s wife (who was kind enough to remember my vegetarian diet). At some point during the night, I looked up and felt incredibly at peace. This was my home away from home and would be for as long as we lived. The melancholy of Memorial Day had dissipated with every hug, laugh, word and smile they offered. In the company of my friends, I have grown to understand the true meaning of loyalty, affection and commitment. 

The past four months have been bleak, stressful and heartbreaking. Not only am I unemployed (again!), but I am broke and several members of my family are battling severe illnesses. In the midst of all these trials and tribulations, I am raising a child on my own and struggling to figure out whether I should go back to school for a Master’s degree in Creative Writing or leave the country to live in Mexico. There have been many sleepless nights and moments of severe loneliness and self-doubt. In the past, I have coped with tumultuous times by isolating myself from human contact. Instead of reaching out to trusted friends and family, I pushed them away in anger and frustration. It doesn’t take an in-depth psychoanalytic examination to figure out why I rebuffed my loved ones in such a callous manner. But by rejecting my family and closest confidantes, I inadvertently damaged my interpersonal relationships. The same friend who has opened the doors of his home time and again for me and my son told me (without mincing words) I pushed people away with my hostility and “me-against-the-world” attitude. Any other person would have told me where to park my aggression but not my friend. He helped me understand I was holding on to resentment and bitterness (created by my broken relationship with my father) and unfairly antagonizing people who loved me. Like I didn’t know. But no one else had ventured to expose my fallacies and foolishness. I made a bold move two years ago as I stood on that lonely beach with my father. I was tired and it was time to break away. Other people loved me as much (or more), and I had an obligation to nurture those relationships. I lost him two years ago, but I gradually awoke to find a new type of existence: one where love doesn’t break but nourishes the soul.