In rereading the journal I’ve kept for most of my life, I came across Maggie, a coworker with whom I became friends with when we worked together at a weekly newspaper. She was younger than me, and I like to think that I taught her some of the rules of the trade.  Remembering her, some 30 years later, I felt a fondness that I had forgotten or didn’t know was there.  

I wondered what happened to her. Did she ever have children like she wanted? Did she ever move on in journalism, become the writer and editor she was destined to become? Would she remember me, and, if so, as someone who helped her battle the powers that be?

I have a friend who, in his mid-80s, has made strong efforts to connect with old friends. In his older age, he is flooded with memories—of a friend he met in the military, of a college classmate and even an old flame. Using Google, I’ve helped him find some of them, but others are lost to history. Some wanted to reconnect; others were happy to let old relationships lapse. I thought he was doing this because he’s been lonely ever since his wife died two years ago but I see something else.

As we reach the end of our lives, I think there is some need, some yearning, to connect with people who were part of our lives, whether co-workers, classmates or friends. Maybe it’s as simple as putting our lives in order and tying up relationships that were never completed. Even if people are no longer in our lives, we can acknowledge to ourselves the relationships and their importance. I would love to know the rest of Maggie’s story, and every other person who I felt close to.

A prominent spiritual teacher says that all the people we have known have contributed to who we are, often in some unknown way. In our older age, imagine how many people we have encountered–whether friends, coworkers, lovers, neighbors, fellow dog walkers, medical healers, even members of our book club–who have pushed us, inspired us, infuriated us and maybe gave us more insights into who we are. Our encounters with them changed us a little or a lot but, in any case, left an indelible stamp on us.

Last spring I took a walk in an old neighborhood where I once lived decades ago, a historic neighborhood with modest brick Victorian houses and yards that had been well tended, with overflowing bushes, varied flowers and trees that had protected this neighborhood for at least a century. Maybe it was the spring day or my mood, but I felt overwhelmed by memories of old friends who had lived here.

There was the house where Diana lived. We were good friends once, part of a writing group, but then she moved away and we lost connection except for a slim one on Facebook. A few years ago she died of cancer. There’s no way to feel her presence unless I stood in front of her house, a small bungalow, until someone came out and asked if I needed help.

Down the block a different Diana had lived. She wrote theater reviews for the newspaper where we worked and often invited me to join her. I am grateful for how much she taught me about theater. Decades ago, she also moved away and I think has since died.  All that’s left for me is her wonderful old Victorian house with the wrap-around brick porch.

Three blocks down is the house where an old friend still lives. Many decades ago we had a terrible falling out, yet I still carry so much tenderness, after our long friendship, that I hoped to see her in her front yard tending her garden. If I had seen her, I might have dropped all feelings of embarrassment and even hurt and hugged her as hard as I could.  

As we near the end of our lives, we realize the joy of relationships, of being close to others, of knowing another person in all their humanity, of the importance of love. Hopefully, we’re able to leave behind the judgments and petty feelings we had when we were young and see old friends in a more generous light. We can let our hearts swell with affection, especially after we’ve lost so much.