"I could not believe my eyes; When I saw through the voice of a trusted friend"

It’s a double-edged sword sharpened with hypothetical circumstance and actuality. I stand before it, armed with hope – a dangerous illusion. My shield is riddled with holes of disappointment. Ever the optimist, I proceed with caution and send a feeler text to one of the two parties. She replies with a heart emoticon.

I lower my fictitious shield and proceed, eager for a happy ending. I send a message – equal parts fun and snarky – to both parties requesting a get-together at a local eatery for girl time, talk, and wine. I suggest we pick a date six weeks out.

Our friendship runs deep – more than thirty years. We have known each other since braces, training bras, and acne. As we grew older, our lives split apart and intertwined, often reuniting for difficult circumstances. We comforted each other, leaned on one another, and laughed together promising to make our meet-ups regular. Only, it didn’t happen.

The narrative changed and I struggled to accept it. Truth was, they stopped extending invitations to me. If I planned a gathering, they were more likely to accept. If I didn’t, they didn’t.

I know I had grown impatient and scornful, but am desperate to maintain their bonds. I genuinely enjoy their company.

So, I wait for a response, enticed by the heart emoticon.

Hours pass.

Then, a barrage of responses come through from both parties. They remind me of the virus that shut down the modern world almost two years ago. They tell me neither of them feels comfortable venturing into the outside world. It’s just too dangerous.

They’re not ready. Not yet. Maybe when it’s warmer.

I reply, “OK, I give up.”

One is offended and tells me so in a long-winded text. I apologize, but feel a brokenhearted emoticon would better illustrate what I really mean to say.

I don’t send it.

My self-esteem takes a hard smack and I begin to question the boundaries and basic elements of friendship. As I get older, the definition seemingly shifts. “Friend” looks like a synonym for “acquaintance,” allowing mediocrity. Gone are the days of expectation and follow-through. Or, maybe it’s just me and I demand too much. After all, I don’t want an individual with a so-so attitude to have that title. I want more.

My ego tumbles to dark spaces and I romanticize friendships of the past, wondering when they changed. I admit my tribe doesn’t exist.

As I feel the exhales of my breath diminish the remaining light in my tunnel of self-sabotage, something deviates. I can’t define it. It’s as if I’m standing among shadows and memories when outside light peaks in. A shimmer turns into a ray, which uncovers a radiating and blinding manifestation.

It begins small. My person who lives fifteen-hundred miles away schedules twice-monthly phone dates. Then, a fantastically wonderful and tasty surprise arrives from the Big Easy, gifted by a phenomenal chickie I met on the top of a crater while on vacation. Then, someone I met through volunteering arranges a double date for us and our significant others. Additional people step in with random texts, get-together plans, and simple messages that remind me I’m not alone and I’m not wrong.

These people are my crew. They are my friends and I never should have doubted the definition. I just shouldn’t have entrusted the title to the wrong people.

I let the other two go. After all, it’s been six months and there’s nothing except silence from them.