Ghosts

Caroline posted a rather insightful and well-written comment to a previous post (The Crying of Frogs, a post that started as an ode to my deck and turned into a rhetorical belch about friendships) that of course got me onto the fast track of mental pacing.
A few weeks ago my youth group had a reunion. Some of those in attendance I had known since I was 4; the rest was my closest group of friends through much of high school. It was with some trepidation that I accepted the invitation and with good reason: some of them I hadn't seen in over 6 years. But I went (thanks to Carey and Liz for tagging along) and was one of only two people in the group who did not have children. Seriously. And there were 15 of us there (not including the spouses and babies). It was a relief when my sister showed up; I could steal a niece or nephew just to fit in. It only took about five minutes before I realized that I really didn't have much to talk to them about and that it was ok. It was then that I remembered something an old friend said about one of her former best friends. She said, "It's not that I love her less...I just love her differently." We stood around with love in our hearts and not a word on our tongues. It wasn't anything that was done or not done; it wasn't bitterness or distrust or disdain; it was unfamiliarity where familiarity had once been. Time shifts the mountains and the earth, why would it not shift relationships? I'm still trying to figure out if I believe in the idea of "growing apart"--I can't decide if I think it's inevitable or a sort of cop-out. I want to believe that true friendships have a way of riding the crest of life, rather than catching the wave. They are constant though peaks and valleys, through those times of inseparable connections and the subsequent lapses in conversation. But history and heartache tell me otherwise.
I ran into an old friend the other day, and after catching up on all the people we both knew and getting some gossip, we were at a loss for words.
A few days later I finally talked to a dear friend with whom I had had no contact in over 4 months, and we spoke for almost three hours as if no time had passed at all.
Both of those people I have called my best friend at some point in my life; why is one still so solid while the other has floundered? Back to my damn is to was question of my previous post.
So I guess the new question is: Where is the spot where we stop living memories and start reliving them?
Caroline's question was, "What makes a best friend? Is it proximity in distance or proximity of morals, ideas, goals, choices, an idea of a fun night? Is it neither?"
Glad those questions are rhetorical, cuz they are more than I know. I know what I feel though. I firmly believe that a best friend is someone who knows you in ways that you don't know. There is more than comfortable camaraderie, more than shared memories, more than similarities. I've heard it said that you like someone because; you love someone although. There is a stark reality to deep and true fellowship. Best friends are as fun as they are gritty; as substantive as they are silly; as full as they are flirty. We are at an age where friends are splitting apart to coagulate into subgroups of the newly-married, the parents, the singles, the couples, the fast-trackers, the students, the wanderers; the taxonomic code for the 20-somethings. To have any sort of fellowship that can withstand that is a wonder.
I talked to a friend today who is in a rather vicious fight with a friend. They are no longer speaking and probably won't for a long time, if ever. But my friend was brutally honest when he said that if his friend was ever in need, he wouldn't hesitate to be there for him, no questions or favors asked. I asked why. He said, "Because he is my friend."
I have drawers, boxes and frames full of photos of blooming, wilting, and withered friendships. They stare back at me, visceral and visual bastions of memories, reminders of what comes and, all too often, goes. They become like ghosts. I have had the creme-de-la-creme of best friends; there are nights when I'd like to exercise their memories, others when I would love to see them and smile once more--not like old times, but in an ever-refreshing, ever growing manner.
"There are ghosts from my past that own more of my soul
Than I thought I had given away
They linger in closets and under my bed
And in pictures less proudly displayed..." [J.Knapp]