
And we do not have much time
To gladden the hearts
Of those who travel the way with us.
So, be swift to love
And make haste to be kind.
—Henri Amiel, 1868
I went to a birthday party last Saturday. I’d nearly forgotten what a party was. I saw a lot of friends I hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
We all were young once. Now we are old. We blithely admit it to each other, but we don’t believe it, not for a minute. And yet wrinkles don’t lie.
We once thought ourselves immortal. Now we know we’re not.
Some friends at the party were unseen, conspicuous by their absence. Ghosts—there, but not really; their names unspoken lest we jinx the living. It’s a birthday party, for heaven’s sake. Not a wake.
Let’s sing.
We sing “Happy Birthday.” We raise our glasses and cheer.
I’m glad to be with old friends. I love them all and should tell them so one by one before I leave. But I don’t have the nerve for it.
Great seeing you. See you next time.
There you go. I’ll tell them next time.
But will there be a next time?
That’s a question on my mind more and more these days. It was on my mind the next morning as I sat with a book unopened on my lap, ruing what I didn’t do the night before.
Like you, I’ve been to funerals, listened to remembrances, and heard things I hadn’t known about an old friend. How did I miss that? Was I that inattentive? What kind of friend was I?
At the party, I banter back and forth. A few minutes here, a few minutes there.
So good to see you! What’s up with you these days?
(I’d gladly tell you, but I see you’re already leaning away.)
Some people say they have no regrets.
I have many.
I could have loved you better, I didn’t mean to be unkind, that was the last thing on my mind.
That’s a lover’s song, but it could be a friend’s song. After all, love makes a friendship too.
We might never get around to telling our friends that we love them next time. But we can be more attentive next time and the time after that.
That’s one way to be kind. And that too says, “I love you.”