This is going to sound harsher than it's meant to, but just because she doesn't know you anymore, doesn't mean she doesn't need you. That your presence might give her joy, your voice on the phone might spark something even if she can't put a finger on it. My mother recognized the voices of those she loved and who loved her long after she'd lost the ability to name them or recognize their faces. Even now, she talks with the invisible friends, who knows who they are, but she craves company. Those family and friends who stopped calling or visiting or asking after her because "would she even know who I am?" were cut from my life because for them, their interactions with Mom, before dementia or after, was all about them. We don't need that. Sounds like you two go back far enough, and close enough that maybe a photo, or a call, or a Zoom if that still works for her (Mom could never make sense of FaceTime, even at her best, she was busy starting at her own image on screen). Don't let go so easy. I say all of this with love, for her, for what you had, and for you, now and going forward.
So lovely, sad - and ultimately life-affirming. When I'm reminded how evanescent a thing this human existence is, it makes me want to appreciate each moment, and each beloved being, even more. Thank you.
An ideal look back for this time of year, especially for this 80-year-old. I wonder where my friends from George Washington High School in Manhattan and the Mosholu-Montefiore Y in the Bronx are. And how they are. And if they are.
Such a moving tribute to Molly, and to that "auld lang syne" we lose bit by bit as we age - instead of in huge pieces, if we're lucky. Thank you for sharing.
To remember a person, especially in writing, is to honor her. You do that here, Sydney. We all open and close our circles of love and friendship throughout our lives. Some forever stay in our hearts.
It evokes the memory that our lives are intervals best illuminated by intersection with other lives that touch us deeply and pass, as we do, on further, and nearly always, out of that touch.
While memory lasts, it may comfort, grieving when it goes. But we are better for having experienced together the joy in life. That comes through, and matters. Thank you.
I enjoyed this reflection. At 69, I recently connected with a high-school best friend. I had not spoken to him in almost 40 years. During our 45 minute phone call, I came away impressed with his maturity and wisdom and open-heartedness. We agreed to chat again. Thank you for this essay encouraging reaching out to friends-of-old.
Beautiful. And beautifully human, as it also touches wounds, but in a delicate way, like a fluttering leaf, to remind me that we all share these pains as we move along in time - those friends we have lost, or are losing, the regrets over losing touch, and the remembrance of those astonishing days when most of our lives were yet to be lived, and we didn't have a clue. (I always hope that I won't let another regret slip in, but that is probably unrealistic.) And now there is still so much richness in life - family, friends, music, the gorgeous world just outside our door, the cranes' ragged singing. Thank you for this essay.
Thank you. It’s why I wrote “Men as Friends”, to keep me on the near side of heartbreak. Then I went to the far side. I had no choice. But Robert Frost offered me guidance as well. “The only way out is through”.
So beautiful. We all need reminders of how precious life is. Today, I’ll choose to be more present with my daughter instead of rushing through routine. Thank you for this. 🤍
This piece brought me to tears so many times for so many different reasons. The words themselves are gorgeous but the feelings exquisitely heartbreaking without reaching despair making the final sentence just perfect. I love how you write but even more I love how you feel. Looking forward to reading more from you!
This is beautiful writing on an important topic.
Glad it struck a chord!
This is going to sound harsher than it's meant to, but just because she doesn't know you anymore, doesn't mean she doesn't need you. That your presence might give her joy, your voice on the phone might spark something even if she can't put a finger on it. My mother recognized the voices of those she loved and who loved her long after she'd lost the ability to name them or recognize their faces. Even now, she talks with the invisible friends, who knows who they are, but she craves company. Those family and friends who stopped calling or visiting or asking after her because "would she even know who I am?" were cut from my life because for them, their interactions with Mom, before dementia or after, was all about them. We don't need that. Sounds like you two go back far enough, and close enough that maybe a photo, or a call, or a Zoom if that still works for her (Mom could never make sense of FaceTime, even at her best, she was busy starting at her own image on screen). Don't let go so easy. I say all of this with love, for her, for what you had, and for you, now and going forward.
<3
So lovely, sad - and ultimately life-affirming. When I'm reminded how evanescent a thing this human existence is, it makes me want to appreciate each moment, and each beloved being, even more. Thank you.
Thank YOU!
An ideal look back for this time of year, especially for this 80-year-old. I wonder where my friends from George Washington High School in Manhattan and the Mosholu-Montefiore Y in the Bronx are. And how they are. And if they are.
Yep, we are at that phase… and lucky to be with it still…or more or less in my case.
Too late? Too soon? Only a number?
On getting out of bed last week, I found myself walking like I was drunk. I wasn’t. I feared a stroke.
Did the responsible thing. Taxi’d to the ER. Nothing sobers like 8 hours in the ER. Even more sobering when you’re sober.
Diagnosis? BPV. Benign Postural Vertigo. It’s a thing. Who knew?
On discharge the doctor asked “has anyone talked to you about your age?” I asked “about the risk on stroke?”
She responded “No, you look much younger than your age.”
I was greedy—I asked “how much?” She said “20 years”. A quick count made me 67. I’d hoped for 30.
Next month 88.
I’ll try not to be greedy in ‘26. 🤷🏼♂️
Sorry to hear, Irwin. But glad there's an explanation, and that it ultimately led you in the direction of a compliment!
Thank you Sari. Glad your parents are OK. Hope you and your Mom chose outrageous colors. 💅🏻💅🏻
<3
Your candor is lovely and moving. Thank you. Very timely for me to read as I am just now reaching out to two friends from 50 years ago.
Glad you approve, Jon!
Such a moving tribute to Molly, and to that "auld lang syne" we lose bit by bit as we age - instead of in huge pieces, if we're lucky. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks for writing. Not easy to see each other disintegrate and wonder about our own future.
Amen.
To remember a person, especially in writing, is to honor her. You do that here, Sydney. We all open and close our circles of love and friendship throughout our lives. Some forever stay in our hearts.
Thank you for this.
It evokes the memory that our lives are intervals best illuminated by intersection with other lives that touch us deeply and pass, as we do, on further, and nearly always, out of that touch.
While memory lasts, it may comfort, grieving when it goes. But we are better for having experienced together the joy in life. That comes through, and matters. Thank you.
Thank YOU, sir!
What a wonderful piece, Sydney! Thank you for sharing.
Sid,
I enjoyed this reflection. At 69, I recently connected with a high-school best friend. I had not spoken to him in almost 40 years. During our 45 minute phone call, I came away impressed with his maturity and wisdom and open-heartedness. We agreed to chat again. Thank you for this essay encouraging reaching out to friends-of-old.
Beautiful. And beautifully human, as it also touches wounds, but in a delicate way, like a fluttering leaf, to remind me that we all share these pains as we move along in time - those friends we have lost, or are losing, the regrets over losing touch, and the remembrance of those astonishing days when most of our lives were yet to be lived, and we didn't have a clue. (I always hope that I won't let another regret slip in, but that is probably unrealistic.) And now there is still so much richness in life - family, friends, music, the gorgeous world just outside our door, the cranes' ragged singing. Thank you for this essay.
Thank you!
Thank you. It’s why I wrote “Men as Friends”, to keep me on the near side of heartbreak. Then I went to the far side. I had no choice. But Robert Frost offered me guidance as well. “The only way out is through”.
So beautiful. We all need reminders of how precious life is. Today, I’ll choose to be more present with my daughter instead of rushing through routine. Thank you for this. 🤍
This piece brought me to tears so many times for so many different reasons. The words themselves are gorgeous but the feelings exquisitely heartbreaking without reaching despair making the final sentence just perfect. I love how you write but even more I love how you feel. Looking forward to reading more from you!
Thanks so much, Nancy!