Erosion of time

Every year on May 16th, I text my friend Jay to wish him a happy birthday. He always responds warmly, and then we wait until the following May for the same interaction.

The last two years of high school, Jay and I were nearly inseparable. We had almost every class together and would sit by each other. When the wireless card on his laptop went out, we chained his computer to mine with an Ethernet cable so he could share my WiFi connection. At the end of each class, we’d disconnect, walk to our next class together, reconnect, and continue diligently listening to our teacher (read: playing computer games).

I think sitting in every class, all day long, tethered together by a wire is a good depiction of the kind of friends we were. Jay was an interesting guy. He was a theater kid, but not one of those theater kids. He loved technology and eagerly drained his bank account to buy the very first iPhone. He taught me what a cummerbund was. He was a shockingly competent swimmer. He was a ferocious, sometimes frustrating, devil’s advocate, regardless of the topic of conversation. He moved to LA after college to work in the film industry. I’m confident I’ll see his name early in the credits as director of a blockbuster movie one day.

And yet, when I married my wife almost nine years ago, Jay wasn’t there. He was married last year, and I wasn’t there. He doesn’t know my kids’ names. As I said, we text, generally, one time each year. I still think of him often and suspect he would say nothing but good things about me, just as I would him.

Time will erode any relationship if we offer no resistance. Defend what matters most accordingly.