On the remnant of feeling.

Yesterday, I was sitting in the window of Hollys when I saw an old friend pass by. It feels weird to say that, an "old friend"; don't you have to be old to have old friends? Hahaha But it's true, though. That's what he is, an old friend--both in the sense that he seems to have aged by years since when I knew him and in that our friendship is old and really, gone.

It was raining and I saw him walk by, jacket zipped up to his neck, his hands in his pockets. I know he saw me because he has this face that he gets when he sees me--it's the same face I make whenever I witness another couple argue and we are in an enclosed space together; his face was the picture of discomfort and mild disgust.

It was odd, what I felt seeing him: it was like seeing a shirt you used to own worn by someone else. At once, there was recognition and alienation; I recognized the shirt but not the person wearing it. Furthermore, I recognized the pattern and there was familiarity but I could no longer remember why I bought that shirt. I remembered what about it I used to like about it but not the reason for liking those things. And sadness, of course. There's always sadness, but it was a muted kind of sadness. It felt like a pale, almost-gray kind of blue, if that makes sense. And I was thinking about that distance in feeling or feeling something for the feeling you used to have for someone more than the actual former object of affection and I think it is that feeling for feeling that allows us in a sense to remember or have respect for time gone by but also, it is that which allows us to move on.

It is also a sign of having forgotten and perhaps, continuing to forget. There's this Gaslight Anthem song that I used to listen to a lot called "We Did It When We Were Young" and one of my favorite verses goes I don't remember the good times, I wasn't there when you were kind. We were strangers many hours and I missed you for so long. But I am older now and we did it when we were young. While I have been singing that song for almost a year and a half now (this is funny because he was the one who introduced me to said band), I think it may have just been yesterday that I understood what those lines meant: there are things that you bury and you leave behind because you have to grow up and grow old; you are human like that.

I am happy or at least relieved to have forgotten. But at the same time, what makes me sad in a maroon, true way that I can still feel in my gut is that because of the expression on his face, I know he has not forgotten and probably never will. My old friend who is dying of kidney disease cannot filter waste: he does not know how to wash the hurt and muck of feelings out of his system and I fear that one day, it is this that will kill him.