I lose track of people, sometimes. I mean, I knew that already. It’s a result of going to two elementary schools, four middle schools, and three high schools: you lose track of people and you find new people. You know someone for eight months at the most, or however long a school year is, then you make new friends for the summer, and then you make new friends in the fall, and you keep it moving.
I’m good at making friends. I should be better at keeping them.
That’s David Brothers, who remains one of my favorite writers on- or offline; he’s a friend, and so I can’t say that sort of thing to him (I have all manner of talented friends, and I find it really difficult to be sincere in my praise of their talents and work, which is frustrating to me; I’ll gush about them to other people, behind their backs, but in person, my sense of awkwardness gets in the way), but still. He’s writing about the ease of losing friends through no real intent to dump them; just losing track, by accident, and suddenly it’s too late to get back in touch without it being weird. I read that, and I thought, yes, that’s me, I do that all too easily and always feel bad about it. There are some wonderful people out there in the world whom I love dearly, and have let disappear from my life.