On graduating & growing up

a love letter to my friends

Nov 01, 2023

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”

— C.S. Lewis

No description available. — picked one where i look really good

One cold, dreary day in April I moved out.

I packed up my books into an assortment of cardboard boxes. Piled my Patagonia sweaters together. Stripped my sheets. Carried everything out the front door. Packed it into my Mom’s car like a 3D game of Tetris. Needed her help to make it all fit… I’ve always sucked at Tetris.

Then I went back for one final sweep of my room—a few loose wires and crumbs like the Grinch had just visited. I gave each of my roommates a big bear hug, exchanged some words about seeing each other soon and how it wouldn’t be that long.

Then, I stepped out, got in the car, and drove away. I tried not to look back.

It felt like the end of an era.

It was.

Any Tuesday afternoon at 2pm when I needed a study break or a laugh or to vent about a group member that couldn’t do “a single ounce of goddamn work”, I’d push back from my desk, mosey on down the hall, knock on one of their doors. Spin into an empty desk chair with a spider web of duct-tape patchwork.

Talk about sports, talk about stress, talk about school, talk about girls, talk about life.

Talk about nothing, talk about everything.

Ask hypothetical questions in a somewhat serious tone. “If Trudeau publicly sucker-punched a grocery store executive, do you think they’d stop fixing bread prices?”

Debate about whether hospitals suck. “I’m not saying they don’t serve a public good, I’m saying they’re depressing and most of your family will die in one”.

Complain about the Leafs last loss. “Montreal?!”

Any Friday night at 5pm, debating doing another hour of work, I’d hear some new shenanigan unfolding in the kitchen, close my laptop (knowing no more work would get done tonight), and bound out of my room. Curious to know what it was this time.

They were always around.

Eventually, familiarity becomes fusion, shared vocabulary emerges.

Sayings that sprout out of Sunday night dinner table talks and frustrated Monday morning studying sessions. “This is a mockery”.

Nicknames that are warped over time with each mispronunciation. “Morphine”.

Song lyrics that become mantras. “Might fake my death and go to Cuba”.

Inside jokes at least one person wants to forget. “If you ever need a screen replaced, ask Tommy”.

There are so many memories tattooed on my brain.

Memories of circling around a wobbly wooden table playing Euchre into the evening, boasting about our hand of 9’s and 10’s, Mumford and Sons crackling in the background on a bluetooth Bose speaker.

Memories of marching to a math exam together in the frigid cold, one we knew would be particularly cruel, exhausted from studying but finding comfort in companionship, the knowledge of our shared slaughter.

Memories of grilling burgers for the fourth time that week on a rusted-out Napoleon barbeque between basketball games on our half-dirt backyard court.

There’s something sacred in the rhythms and rituals forged from years of friendship.

At the beginning of university, I was told by a senior student to cherish school because it’s the only time I’ll be in the same city as all my friends.

I didn’t feel the weight of his words until after I graduated.

I know time is irreversible. I know I can’t relive any of it. But that makes me love my memories all the more.

I’m lucky to say I lived with my best friends for four years.

On a walk by the lake in August, someone asked me if I feel close to any of my friends.

I froze mid-step. My neck veered around, eyes flashed red, mouth opened, ready to spew venom. Then, anger gave way to a sullen softness.

“No,” I mumbled. “I don’t.”

My shoulders sunk low for the rest of the night.

Since graduating, I’ve seen my friends a handful of times. It’s hard to wrangle everyone together. Different schedules, different jobs, different priorities.

Last summer, we met up twice at The Town Crier on John Street for drinks.

I tend to run through the same checklist of questions like I’m an interviewer from Vogue trying to find out what’s new in their life.

“How’s work?”

… “Oh awesome. And how’s the new apartment?”

… “Very cool, very cool. Still seeing that girl you met at volleyball? How’s she?”

Everyone hanging out together once felt like breathing. Now, like an old painting with a new brushstroke, there’s something different I can’t quite put my finger on.

I often leave The Town Crier with a tinge of sadness. A realization of the reality that people change. That people can be both familiar and estranged.

I tread a mental tightrope, knowing that these are my friends, but also not the same people I once knew so well. The cracks that had split between us on that cold, dreary day in April now feel more like canyons.

I don’t want to look at my friends and see ghosts.

I’m not much of a texter. I forget to call. I get busy with my own busyness.

But last week, I Facetimed three of those friends.

40 minutes. 40 minutes of talking. 40 minutes is all it took to leave a smile plastered across my face. The elation and laughter and lightness felt akin to the colorblind seeing vibrancy for the first time.

Like some dusty book I had blown clean and cracked open, or some stiff joint I finally stretched, it felt profoundly proper.

I had forgotten how much I missed them.

I thought I had to end this essay with some call to action or life-defining lesson about how I will change and create the best friendships known to man.

I don’t.

I just want my friends to know I love them.

Thank you so much for reading. This essay came sorta easily and I’m worried because it wasn’t hell to write, it won’t be any good. But, I hope it made your day a little more beautiful & perhaps inspired you to call a friend :)

I’d love to hear—how do you think about maintaining friendships?

On graduating & growing up

a love letter to my friends

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