We sat in darkness, waiting for the sunrise. A light snow had fallen overnight outside, I could see it reflecting the lights from houses on the roof next to us, on the ground, and the deck outside my window. The snow helped illuminate the night beautifully, it was at least two hours before the first hint of light from the sunrise. I loved the quiet, listening to our breathing and smelling the fragrance in the room, of soap, candlewax, essential oils, and my friend’s evasive Spanish cologne. We sat in big, overstuffed dark green chairs, though in the darkness everything looked gray or black. We were facing each other, how we often liked to talk, close enough that our legs and feet might frequently brush against each other’s when we moved or shifted ourselves. It was too dark to clearly see one another, I could just make out his faceless form, like a silhouette, in the chair. I knew it was the same for him, and it was exciting. We would share thoughts, ask questions, all without benefit of seeing facial expressions, eyes that would lift up in surprise, or mouths turned down in distaste. The only way to describe this kind of conversation is to say it is purely mental in nature, with a focus on each word, in deference to the one uttering that word. It was, for lack of any other term, comfortable. I felt open, vulnerable, and quietly confident for the conversation that was about to come. I knew it was coming, it had to. We knew each other too well to ignore even the invisible things that might pass between us. My friend was first to break the spell and crush the silence.
“Are you ok?”
“I don’t know, honestly, but thanks for asking.”
“It’s all right. You know without my asking that I want to hear what you have to say. I want to know what’s in your heart.”
“Yeah, I do know that, and you know I feel the same. I guess it doesn’t need to be said after all this time, it’s just something we know, isn’t it.”
My friend ignored my comment, which I fully expected, no reason to continue discussing the obvious. He asked me the first question, while I was ignorant of its nature, I knew it was coming.
“If you had to put your life into one word, just one single word, without any explanation, without adding anything, what would that one word be?”
I thought for a moment. Words buzzed around my head like bees, not necessarily threatening, just noisy and each one clamoring for my mind’s attention. My friend didn’t mind my taking time to answer, and I knew that as well. We were used to it; in all the busy functions of life, we each found solace in a long understanding of how important conversations never needed to be rushed.
“Experience.”
“What?”
“That’s my one word, experience. You asked for one word, that’s it, the one I’m giving you. Experience.”
Friend sounded resigned. “Ok. I’ll buy that. It’s honest, neutral, even if lacking passion.”
I laughed. “Does passion even exist? I think back on so many things, so many people, and it all seems so phony now, it’s all hype. Isn’t passion what people express when they want something from you? Like a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman?”
It was Friend’s turn to laugh just a little. “Maybe. You really think that’s all there is to it?”
“No, not really. I’ve known passion, if you want to break it down to the bare definition of the term. But honestly? Now I kind of think passion is something that exists within, in truth it’s rarely expressed. What does get expressed is feigned, put on, a charade, like actors on a stage wanting you to believe their story, and while you believe it for a moment, wanting to think they really are who they pretend to be, all along and in the end, you know it was just make believe. It isn’t real. If it was, it would last, it would be touchable, seeable, reachable.”
Friend sighed, as I felt his foot briefly brush against mine, telling me he had moved a little. “That’s a lot of ables. So you think passion is just something temporary, like a fleeting emotion? Here today and gone tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that I can remember so many times in my life I thought I felt passion, or that I had passionate feelings and opinions about something, or someone, only now they’re all just memories. There’s nothing alive in them.”
Friend nodded. In the darkness I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it, somehow. Or maybe I merely expected it and believed it so, that he agreed with me. A few minutes passed of silence and deep thinking between us. We were used to that. Friend breathed out. “I’d want to say that’s almost sad, only I think I can understand it too well. So back to your life, what made you choose the word, experience?”
“I guess because that’s what life is. No matter what, good or bad, rewarding or terrifying, they are all just experiences. In the end, what do we really have to show for being alive? Isn’t it basically a long list of experiences that have changed us, shaped us, wounded us, made us into what we are? And that’s it? I mean, wherever we go from here, that’s all we take with us, right?”
“That makes sense, and I understand now what you mean. Yeah, life, if nothing else, is certainly an experience. I guess it’s a bit ambivalent, experience that is. An experience can be good or bad, or in between, just something that we did or that happened. Kind of like watching a dog walk down the sidewalk, it’s an experience, but I can’t say that it’s good or bad, it’s just something I saw that made an impression on my brain, in my memory.”
I smiled, though Friend didn’t see it. “That’s the best you could come up with for an ambivalent memory?”
Friend sounded a little impatient with me. “No, not the best, just an example. We probably do a hundred things a day, millions in a lifetime, that are just experiences that don’t deserve a rating. We get a glass of water, we go to the bathroom, we turn up the heat when we’re cold, we see an animal outside, just simple experiences. Only without them, we’d suffer. Without water we’d die, without a toilet things would be a mess, to start with, if we didn’t have heating I guess we’d all be huddled around fires outside our caves; kind of a miserable existence if you ask me. And sometimes seeing an animal outside is the only reassurance we’re not completely alone on this thing we call Earth.”
Funny how heat was mentioned, just then the furnace kicked on, we heard the hum of the fans and the air suddenly moving in the room. It felt nice, it was cold outside and the cold was creeping its way through the windows and walls.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “You make a point. Life holds a wide, wide range of experiences.”
“So what would be your second word? After experience, what single word comes to mind to further define your feelings about life?”
“I had a word on the tip of my brain, I almost said it the first time, then it escaped me while we were talking. Give me a minute to think.”
Friend sighed. “Of course.”
“Maybe I’d say something like, hopeful. I’ve always had a lot of hope for good things.”
“I know you have. We’ve shared so many conversations where that was expressed. I’d have to say you might be one of the most hopeful persons I’ve ever known. Sometimes your hope has given me hope.”
“It’s hard to hang onto hope sometimes, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I can’t argue with that. I’ve always felt kind of hopeful around you, though.”
I was a little surprised by that statement. “Why’s that? Maybe I don’t see what you see.”
“Well, for one, when you ask me how I am, just like I asked you if you are ok, I always know you mean it. You are sincere, you want me to talk to you honestly, you want me to be myself. I know that, and it gives me hope, like maybe life can be better than it is sometimes. A lot of experiences are tough, they can steal your hope.”
“Yeah, I get that. What means a lot to me is when you ask me if I am ok, like you did at the start, I know you are putting yourself aside to listen to me, it becomes your focus. So many people only listen to enough, so then they can tell you how they feel, and it overshadows anything you were trying to say. We’ve known each other a long time, a long time, and I’ve appreciated that about you, how you are able to get beside me and feel what I feel. Even when I know what I’m saying sounds crazy or self-centered, you don’t judge, you just listen. It isn’t always reciprocated, I see that too. Sometimes you listen to me and then I seem to forget that you have your own thoughts, your own things to talk about.”
Friend put his hand up to his face, I could see the movement by the dim light penetrating through the window. “I think that works both ways. You’ve always been the friend I knew I could count on to hear me out when I’ve needed to talk. I know there’ve been times you disagreed with me and you never told me, you never said a word until maybe I asked you.”
I nodded. “Thanks, I guess that’s rather important to both of us. So what I mean by hope, really, is I always have this base line of hoping good things will become real. I’ll go somewhere and hope I have a good experience. I always hope I’ll meet someone who will become a being who means something to me. I guess I always hope that tomorrow might be better than today. You’ve helped me keep that hope, sometimes I’ve been tempted to just give up on it. Lately maybe more than ever. No one ever tells you how it feels to age in loneliness.”
“I know. I also know that you’ve probably inspired more hope than you’ve ever received. You have a sort of care-taker personality, you are way more concerned about others than I see them concerned about you. It’s made me sad at times to see you so let down. I wish I could make things better for you, somehow.”
I breathed out hard. “You do. You always do. You’re doing it right now.
“Nice. Maybe you don’t realize it, but I think you inspire hopefulness in others. You let a lot of things slide, people offend you, you brush it off, you’re always ready to start things new and fresh. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you hold a grudge.”
“I try not to. Even when things are bad, I guess there’s always reason to hope it will be better, that it can be better. I tell myself that, anyway. I’m not sure if I always believe it anymore, or even if I want to believe it.”
Friend’s voice went up a little, sounding lighter, happier. “So, who is the most hopeful person you’ve ever known?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one. I don’t know, I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head. No, wait, wait, years and years ago, shoot, I was so young, I sat next to an elderly lady on a plane. I wasn’t interested in talking to her, while she wanted to talk the whole way. However, soon I was drawn into her conversation as she asked me one question after another about my life, then I started to ask her things. Suddenly she said, ‘You never know just what’s over the next hill, or around the next corner, it’s all out of sight. No one can predict it, no one can see it ahead of you, any expectations are only a guess, you just have to wait for it to appear. If you stop or give up, you’ll never know what you might have missed out on.’
“I remember those words making a strong impression on me, and I thought, even at her age, she’s excited for the next thing to come, not worrying if it’s good or bad. I think that expresses a lot of hope. Then she told me a true story, about some neighbors she once had, a few years back. They had a boy who was disabled, they called him mentally retarded in those days, no one uses that term anymore. No one thought he could understand much, so no one taught him much. She explained to me how she’d always say hi to him whenever she saw him out in the yard, where he’d usually just sit and stare, never responding to her friendliness. Then one day the family was moving away, she watched them load up their car as one by one they all got in. Suddenly this boy ran over to her yard and threw his arms around her, holding on tight and not wanting to let go. His parents came over, they were a little embarrassed and started apologizing for the boy’s aggressiveness. ‘No,’ she said, ‘he’s telling me that he loves me and he’s going to miss me. Love is what makes all of us human, nothing else, not our intellect, our education, or our skills and abilities. All it takes is love to make us human, so he’s just like all the rest of us. He knows and feels love, and he’s telling me now, he loves me.’
“You know what, I think I had a few tears then, and it kind of chokes me up now to remember it. If I ever knew her name, I’ve long forgotten it, and of course she’s gone now. I haven’t thought about that for a long time.”
Friend sounded amazed. “Wow, that’s an incredible story, you’ve never told me that before. I think you’re right, that woman expressed a lot of hope in everything she said and felt. Hopeful for the future, and hopeful toward a little boy no one else saw much value in. It’s awfully easy to see some people as less than human sometimes.”
“Yeah, it is, I know. I wish I could remember her name, but I don’t.”
“Life is full of these kinds of things, these experiences, as you say. I think you’re right, they make us into who we are, and who we become. Can you imagine how you might think or feel if you’d never accidentally met that old woman? How differently you might look at things today? She had a big impact on your mind and your perspectives. She changed you. I wonder how many times in a life that kind of thing happens?”
I laughed just a little. “I know, it’s more like it was intended, that it was supposed to happen for the two of us to be on that plane at the same time, flying to same city, it’s amazing. I haven’t told you another part of the story yet. I was actually assigned a different seat, but there was already somebody sitting in it. I showed the stewardess my ticket and that person showed her theirs, it turned out we’d both been assigned the same seat. Meanwhile the old woman kept telling me the seat next to her was empty, asking me to sit there. It was a bit irritating there momentarily, I didn’t really want to sit next to her, I wanted my own seat. The stewardess was rather blunt, saying if I wanted to make a fuss I could hold up the whole flight, so I ended up taking the seat next to the lady. And then, wow, think about it, it turned out to be one great, memorable conversation, a great experience. Really, like someone planned it that way and made it work out. You ever think God works like that?”
“I don’t know, to be honest, I wouldn’t have a clue, but I wouldn’t rule it out, either. I don’t know how to reconcile time and chance with Divine will. I doubt anyone really does, no matter what they might have to say about it.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you on that. An awful lot of people present themselves as authorities on a subject, when in reality they are just repeating what they were told by people who repeated what they were told, and so on it goes. You think we might be at the bottom edge of higher learning? Like we’ve morphed into just accepting what we’re told because the experts say so?”
“Food for thought, I guess. I’ve always appreciated people who weren’t afraid to think for themselves. What do you think happens to people who lose their sense of hope?”
The question conjured up things I’d not thought about for some time. “Ah, I’m reminded of an old poem I read when I was a kid, by Langston Hughes, Hold Fast to Dreams. I memorized it and I can still recite it word for word. It’s not a long poem, not by any means, nothing like The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, which I also memorized, but it’s quite meaningful, in a beautiful, lyrical sense. It impacted me in my youth, and still does.”
Friend sounded interested. “Tell me about Langston Hughes.”
“All I remember is a few details, he was from Missouri, born in 1901. He was a great African American writer, he was into jazz, wrote plays, non-fiction; he was also involved in social and civil rights issues. Died in 1967, if I remember right. He’s one of the characters I’ve always wished I could have met somehow, maybe heard his whole story straight from himself, in his own words and feelings. I don’t know why, just someone I’ve kind of felt connected to since I first read some of his poetry.”
“Ok, so the poem, how does that relate to hope?”
“Well, he talks about holding onto our dreams, because if we let them go, life loses meaning, something like that. You want me to recite it?”
“No, you don’t need to, I know the poem.”
“You do? Then why did you ask all that stuff?”
“I just wanted to hear you talk about it. You were a little passionate there for a moment.”
I laughed. “Wow, ok, I guess you got me.”
“Oh no, I didn’t mean to, I just enjoyed hearing you talk about it, and Langston Hughes. Hearing stuff I already know from your perspective and feeling adds to the depth and meaning I already have. It’s like I’m seeing it through your eyes and your heart.”
I smiled, knowing well how the darkness hid it from reality. “I like that, I really do. So it’s ok when some things are repetitive then?”
“Yeah, I think so. Now that we’ve talked about experience and hope, let me ask you for one more word, just one, that you might use to describe and define your life. One word that takes in every single thing you’ve lived through up to now.”
“This isn’t going to sound great, but I’ve already got the word. Disappointment.”
“Really! I’m a little surprised.”
I sighed loudly. “I knew you would be, I might be too. Remember that old song, I forget who sang it, Is That All There Is?”
“Peggy Lee.”
“What?”
“Peggy Lee sang that song. I never really liked it, to be honest, but I remember it.”
I put my hands together in front of me, pointing them upwards against my chest. “Oh, yeah, you’re probably right, I don’t remember much of her music. Anyway, sometimes I ask myself about my life, ‘is that all there is?’ It’s like I was hoping for so much more, I had such great expectations out of life, I never wanted to hold onto regrets, but now after so much has passed, all said and done, it feels, I don’t know, kind of empty sometimes.”
Friend shifted his weight a little in his chair, I could hear him moving. “That was a good book, too.”
“What was?”
“Great Expectations.”
I smiled again. “Oh, yeah, I did say that, didn’t I. Anyway, you know, life, marriage, kids, work, all of it, I mean, yeah, it’s been a good life in many ways, but it doesn’t feel like I did the best at any of it. Sure, I’ve got great memories, wife, my kids, I’m not unhappy about any of it, but seeing it almost over, things coming to an end, I guess I sometimes simply ask myself why it isn’t as great as I’d hoped for or expected it to be.”
“What do you mean, coming to an end?”
“Well, life really. I mean, we are older, and getting older each day. The years ahead are way less than the years behind.”
Friend sounded almost irritated with me. “Oh come on, you could easily live another twenty, maybe even more years. Wouldn’t even put you at a hundred yet.”
“I might, who knows. Then again, I might not. None of us knows, there aren’t any guarantees. So if I’m winding up, is this the best I could do? I’m disappointed in myself, mostly, and disappointed I didn’t do better, at everything. It feels like I’m paying a price for it now.”
Friend nodded, I felt it. “I think I understand. I think I can even empathize with you. But what do we do about it?”
“I don’t know, make each day, each moment count for something, I guess. I’ve got more days I can productive, I’m still strong, I can do better at a lot of things. I’ll take time to write, I love writing. I tell my family, the one or two that I see, every day I love them.”
“Do they say it back?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does that disappoint you?”
I took a fast breath. “Not really. Actions speak louder than words.”
“Do you show them you love them?”
“I think I do. I also think I can do better.”
I heard his chair make as sound as he leaned back into it. “Yeah, I get it, time goes fast, right? When we’re young, we always think we have so much time, like things are forever, then we blink and it’s almost gone. It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“It hurts like hell, more than I ever could have imagined.”
We both breathed out heavily. Friend sounded a little tired. “Yeah. It does. So are you saying you hope the next experience won’t be quite so disappointing?”
I laughed out loud. “Are you using my own words against me now?”
“No, not really, not trying to. Just putting it all together. Would it surprise you to hear I feel much the same? That I can relate to everything you say?”
“No, it doesn’t surprise me. We’ve known each other a long time, I think we’ve always understood each other.”
Friend leaned forward now, placing his hands on my knees. It was a familiar gesture, he had often reached out to touch me when he was very comfortable with our conversation. “Is there a short story that you consider your favorite? One you don’t mind reading again and again? I’m curious.”
“Yeah, actually there is, it was written in early 1900’s, by Jack Finney. It’s in his book, I Love Galesburg In the Springtime, it’s out of print now. I think the story is called, A Possible Candidate for President. It’s hilarious, about this kid who saves all his friends by pretending to hypnotize a tiger that escapes from the circus. It’s pure genius, if you ask me. I laugh hard every single time I read it.”
Friend sat back in his chair again. “That’s great. Do you think there’s anything about your life people will remember, something that will make them smile, or give them hope, or even make the laugh, once it’s all said and done?”
“Wow, now that’s a question. I don’t know, I can’t even begin to answer that. I would hope so. I mean, I’ve written some stuff, I’ve done some things, I’ve been creative. It’d be awesome to think that something about me would inspire people even after I’m gone. I guess that’s the stuff of a legacy.”
“Yeah, and definitely something to think about. I’d say a better goal than dying filthy rich and everyone fighting over what you have left behind.”
“No doubts there. I’ll have to think about this, we should talk about it again.”
Friend nodded his head slowly, almost sadly. “I agree. The sun is coming up, I can see light outside the window now. There’s a thin layer of snow on the ground.”
I stared out the window myself. “Another day dawns. I wonder what it will bring?”
Friend leaned forward again, almost like he was anxious about something. “I’ve enjoyed talking, sitting here in the darkness. It’s like we can say whatever we need to, like this is a sacred place and time.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Light began filling the room, slowly at first, allowing me to see the details of everything. My books on their shelves, the small table, flowers and candles mixed with books of all sizes upon it, the gray curtains that clashed with the ancient wallpaper. I leaned back in my chair and let out a long sigh; my heart felt heavy, lonely, as I looked across toward the chair in front of me. It was empty.
It might have been some minutes, it might have been hours, when my daughter, no longer a young girl herself, came into the room. “You slept in your chair again, Daddy. Or have you already been up?”
“No, no, I must have fallen asleep here, I woke up as the sun began to show itself. It’s snowed out, hasn’t it?”
“A little, it’s clear out now. How was your night? Are you feeling well? Ready for coffee?”
“I feel fine. I slept ok, I think. I’m a little emotional at the moment, I dreamt about Clarence again last night.”
“Oh, your best friend. How long ago did he die?”
“Five years.”
“Was it a good dream?”
“The best, they always are. We’ve caught up for a little while, until the next time.”
She smiled that familiar smile, as though patiently indulging me in my aging foolishness. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too.”