e was a good friend.

We knew each other for decades. But in the final few years of our friendship, he got… difficult. He’d call and talk AT me for hours. In person, he was loud. At restaurants, he’d talk politics in a booming voice, gathering angry stares. It got to where I’d flinch when I saw his name pop up on my phone — there would go another hour.

A friend and I tried to stage an intervention but he turned us down – he had other little things to do. And then at a mutual event where I was supposed to direct things, and where he’d been told to follow established R/T practices, he did not. He interrupted, argued and criticized me over an open and very busy frequency. He made a problem we were trying to clear worse. Then afterwards, in the debrief when it was my turn to talk, he rebuttabled right over me. I told him I had the floor and he continued yammering. And I snapped – yelled at him to shut up, told him what his problems were and left. Blocked him on my phone. The next day, he left a voice mail how we “needed to talk” (in that tone like I had drug money that was his). Wrote him an email that “it was over”. Ended the friendship. Felt a lot better. My life was mine again. Done for good.

Only a few days later, while walking in the nearby botanical gardens, a thought came to me. I remembered someone else.

She was a good friend.

I used her as a sounding board and ear in my early days, listening to her advice and enjoying her company. We met for lunch once a week for twenty years, always enjoying each others’ company. At one point I talked about something that really bothered me deep down, but I told it in the form of a lie. I shouldn’t have but I did. I didn’t give it much thought until years latter when I went to a west coast workshop and learned to admit to the lie. Came back and euphorically told everyone – including her – my breakthrough. But I didn’t realize that she’d put more credence into my original lie than I had. What was a little white lie to me was, to her, a break of trust. I’m not sure how she took it (I can’t speak for her) but that, and some other stumbling blocks, ended our once-a-week meetings.

A few years later I found myself bumping into her at some event. There was an after-party get together and it worked out that we could drive out together and talk on the way. And I suppose we got a lot of closure. I admitted my mistake but our lives had moved on. But I’m glad I had that time with her.

Another year or two and I reached out – would she like to go to coffee, just chat and catch up? She agreed. We went. It was nice enough – a little strained. Afterwards, out in the parking lot, I told her that if she wanted to go out again, just ping me. Left it up to her, NQA (as we used to say).

She never called.

That hurt a little. I’d been on my best behavior that last time. Open and reflective and honest. But somehow, she turned me down. I never quite figured out why that hadn’t worked.

Until now. Standing out in the wet heat of the botanical gardens, thinking of Him and how nothing he could say would make things better, I realize that perhaps She felt the same way about me. No amount of charm and jokes were going to fix things. And I accepted that. It’s how it goes, another life lesson. But at least I can feel good about the years we did share and the reason it ended.

It’s closure, in its own way.

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