Lying in bed last night, staring at the dark, listening to the fan, I thought of a friend--someone I've known since I was 17, someone I love, someone I once thought I loved loved. I don't know when I talked to him last. I never email, I don't visit on my rare trips to Joplin, I have the vaguest idea what's going on in his life. And yet, I still think of him as my friend. There's a Summer storm and I'm helping him up a tree to an open window because he locked himself out of his house. He's driving too fast on a country road but I don't care because the night air is cool and the crickets & tree frogs are singing. Etc. The memories are always strong no matter how distant my friends are--they're a breath away. But I've been fooling myself. I'm lucky to have met so many cool people but I haven't put out the effort to keep these connections vital. I've let myself become the friend of a bunch of memories. Like dusty people-shaped containers with varied levels of soul evaporating away.