It was an odd feeling, speaking at a funeral the departed probably would not have wanted me to attend.
But life doesn’t come with a rulebook. Times change, and people change – and this experience showed me that even minds can change in small but meaningful ways.
Mike, my best friend from middle school on, died suddenly of heart failure last month. Or to borrow from “Operator” by Jim Croce, “my best old ex-friend.” Mike and I stopped talking to one another 15 years ago. I learned of his passing via text from a former coworker who was a friend to Mike..
The parting of ways came after more than 37 years of intense friendship, a relationship marked by several periods in which we didn’t speak – something I would learn in the days around the funeral was not unique to me.
Mike had a strong sense of what was “right” and a narrow margin for “wrongs” – whether a stray opinion or my choice to enter management. Every stoppage in our friendship was initiated by him, each because of some principle he felt I violated. Every bridge built to resume the relationship was initiated by me.
This point of this column is not about the deep power of shared bonds, even though Mike and I shared them over our childhood experiences, our interest in writing and journalism, our love for music, travel adventures and more.
It’s not about who ultimately was right and who was wrong. It’s not about what kept me coming back to dysfunctional patterns (although I’ve spent a lot of time and money working on that one).
It’s about realizing friendship isn’t always forever – and that’s OK. That just as you can’t recreate that perfect late summer day when Lake Michigan was smooth as glass and Mike and I caught salmon as the sun set, you shouldn’t assume that what attracts can always sustain.
People change, and our needs in relationships change, too.
It doesn’t mean the bonds didn’t matter or that I didn’t benefit from them over the years. I didn’t initiate the final silence but when we got there in 2010, I accepted it.
The weight of conflict finally made me decide there was no common path together. I never offered to build the next bridge, and we never spoke again.
The night before the service, I gathered with three friends who also had known Mike since our school days. We all noted how at some point or another we’d lost touch with Mike or been “paused.”
We shared some beers and laughs over adventures and misadventures, but the mood was somber. Being Mike’s friend could be intense – yet here we were. He left a mark on our lives, and it was meaningful to honor him while also acknowledging the complexity of his character.
Leading up to the funeral, several of us had reached out to Mike’s mother, whom we’ve known for decades. She said she hoped his friends could share some stories at the service.
As my friends and I recounted tales the evening before the funeral, we’d often finish with the caveat, “I won’t be telling that one at the funeral.” My truth wasn’t theirs – and I certainly couldn’t speak for Mike. We agreed we’d stay silent.
At the funeral home the next day, Mike’s mother greeted us warmly. She told one of my friends, Chuck, “It would be a great honor if you would be a master of ceremonies of sorts today.”
My friends and I exchanged glances. Oh boy — stories would be told.
Chuck didn’t have a script. What he did was authentic – and perfect. He spoke from the heart about the nature and quality of the friendship, about the characteristics that made Mike fascinating and frustrating, and about himself being “ghosted” for the past several years.
That set the tone for a succession of speakers – ex-coworkers, neighbors, a former employer, friends from other avenues of his life – who shared their stories and impressions, many quite different than the Mike my friends and I knew.
More than one said Mike was their best friend. Some spoke of a neighborly kindness he exhibited. However, several added something to the effect of, “I didn’t know ghosting was a thing, but now that you mention it. …”
After the service his mother hosted a gathering in the backyard of Mike’s home, which he’d bought a few years back and that I could never have anticipated seeing. Several people remarked how struck they were by the honest sharing at the service, and how they walked away with a better sense of Mike’s dimensions.
I felt that, too, even though the Mike they described was largely unfamiliar to me. Then again, I had been frozen on the 2010 version of the man.
At one point I went into the house. It was empty and quiet, and I sat on the couch with my feelings for a spell.
I felt sadness, but no regret. The 37 years of our friendship presented lots of questions, but the two days remembering Mike with those in his life made it clear they didn’t need to be answered. Our last parting was a mutual decision, and that was the actual “goodbye.”
We had done right by ourselves.
# # #
