I almost sent a text message to a friend. It’s a friend whose name I heard in a snippet. Overheard really. And the snippet suggested maybe they aren’t doing so well. The snippet suggested in that smug — oh I would never have a problem, oh no, never me, but let me tell you about someone who has a problem — that they had had an event. An embarassing event. A career-ending event as we used to say when we were allowed to say it. But maybe not career-ending, but career-shortening. An event. An event that was noticed.
and so I almost sent them a message. Are you okay? Is there. You know. Any way that I can help?
But our silos. Our damn silos. And our damn isolation.
I fast forward — dramatically, oh the poet — to the funeral.
Oh, no, I had no idea she was having a problem.
Standing next to one another at the bar. Clink glasses. “Here’s to one alcoholic from another.” “I’m not an alcoholic.” And I smiled a liquored smile in response. “No, of course not.”
But I knew the look.
So, I almost sent her a message just now.
I mean, as if….
Wrapped in denial. Who listens? Screaming for help, but then rejecting it? It’s silly to think that I can save anyone.
I cannot even save myself.
But I’ll ponder the message I might have sent, and pray that it’s all my fertile, writer’s imagination.
Scott Macmann 