Lunch With Long Time Friends

It's something I look forward to.

I remember the days when I was working such that the pace of the day forced me to rush through the lunch hour. Hour? Baloney. I barely had time to chew and swallow, never quite remembering what I had eaten. That’s why I enjoy my lunchtime nowadays, especially with long-time friends. Notice, I didn’t say old friends. Long time sounds much more mellow, much more acceptable. And the hour stretches to uncountable space. Add breakfast to the mix.

I never had time for breakfast. Now I do; especially a cherished extended one once a week with friends. Omelets, eggs, pancakes, waffles, scones, and other stuff have replaced Drake’s Cake at the instant coffee machine.

I also try to contact a friend every day. It is refreshing, nostalgic, and stimulating, especially as our world is shrinking, like us.

“What do you guys talk about?” Diane often asks when I bop through the door. “I’m not sure. Stuff. Mostly the same things. The old days. Yes, the good old days. We try to stop time.”

The talk is simple, bright, and soft like cotton candy, as we reduce the gap between the present and the past. Each lunch, like each day, is a measure of time fleeting, recorded with a new infirmity, some forgetfulness, lots of repetition, more spots on the back of our stone rough hands, a shaky more careful gauge, holding the martini with two hands, never daring to spill a drop. Attention requires some cunning. Ah yes, lunch with longtime friends. Years blur and meld.

A little more slide with each passing year. But then a joke, a laugh, a memory, a bond, a love connection. Eyes brighten. “I should have. . . . ” Old lovers. Smiles.

No envy. No judgments. Words tumble. Word after word. A fleeting thought creeps in, then dithers and tends to hesitate, but not a bit of conversation is lost. Nothing replaces it. Not a text. Not an email. Nothing. Phones off. The world has been shut out. I realize that we yearn for conversation.

Do we begin to stop noticing details when we know that time is running out or do we notice them more; the tremor, the drooping lip, a limp, sagging skin, especially that under a raised arm? Crooked fingers. Nodes resembling nobs of garlic. Jittery feet. A wrinkled, circumspect expression. Thin lips. Bushy, caterpillar-shaped eyebrows. Crooked backs. Do we need a good cut man like the guy at The Arena who sat in Marciano’s corner?

Do details matter as we age? No. None do. We don’t see them. Because all of it mellows with reminiscences.

Diane again. “If you’re not sure what you talked about, what did you have for lunch?”

“I’m not sure. It didn’t matter. But I know it was good. We laughed a lot. Oh yeah, I had my favorite dessert, affogato. You know, gelato drizzled with espresso.” Whatever we ate, it was a medicinal, mood booster.

Occasionally someone brings a guest. Sometimes that guest is well-known, and easily recognized. Once it mattered. Not now. Lucky us to share intellect and experience, see the famous as normal as us, eat what we eat, and laugh at the same.

The shared history and understanding inherent in long-term friendships provide unique support. Friends who have known you for years understand your life experiences and the continuity as we age. It doesn’t matter. The powerful sense of belonging does.

We have fun. We laugh. We think we’re important. We think we once were. We realize the unpredictable and embrace it. The view, once clear, gets more and more granular. Sure cataract surgery helps but not that view. Faces are misty. A cane here. A walker there. The challenges keep coming. And so?

“My hip hurts.”

“My garden is smaller.”

And so?

The most important part of lunch with close friends isn't the meal or the place although both carry some weight, but more so the opportunity to connect and enjoy each other's company.

How memorable a simple lunch or breakfast can be. Something to yearn for. Something to look forward to; forever.