How many lives does a friendship have?

Cats have nine lives, Pac-Man has three lives, and radioactive isotopes have half-lives. How many lives does something else—conceptual or actual—have, and why?

— Inspired by Kendrick Shin, Class of 2019

How many lives does a friendship have?

I. The Knell

It was freakishly warm for late November, and all the world was taking advantage. I was strolling toward my dorm, not a care in the world. Fat squirrels lazed on the quad, basking in the slothful sun, and birds chirped like it was springtime. It was the sort of day you never want to end. But so it did.

My friend W. greeted me, and, pointing over my shoulder, remarked, “Oliver, have you ever noticed there’s a clock up there?” I had no idea what he was talking about. My eyes followed to where he was pointing, arriving at—lo and behold—a clock. I stared at the clock, a small thing, half-shrouded in ivy, inset into a turret atop the building. And then my eyes glazed over, because I was lost in thought. Deep within my hippocampus, a crackling chain of neurotransmissions and ion transports traced a freshly carved path, for the whole situation was eerily familiar.

The week before, I had read Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. It’s a memoir, taking place in a little Illinoisan town, during a childhood summer. Halfway through the book, John Huff, Douglas’s best friend, receives news that he’s moving to Milwaukee that very evening. John stays silent as Douglas panics. Suddenly, he interrupts. Distraught, he asks Douglas if the Terle house’s colored windowpanes, which he just noticed that day, had always been there. Douglas says they have. I will leave John’s reply untouched, because it’s too pretty to paraphrase:

“Gosh, Doug, why should those damn windows scare me? I mean, that’s nothing to be scared of, is it? It’s just… It’s just, if I didn’t see these windows until today, what else did I miss? And what about all the things I did see here in town? Will I be able to remember them when I go away?”

That little clock scared me. It reminded me that the end was near—fitting, since it was a clock. I’ve walked past it—a good Fermi problem*—approximately ((7.3 × 30) + (90 × 3)) × 2 = 978 times. And if I didn’t see that clock until today, what else did I miss? And what about all the things I did see here at Loomis? Will I be able to remember them when I go away?

We graduate in May.

II. The First Life

As Connecticut comes to close, I can’t help but reminisce about New York.

In New York, I had wonderful friends. Nowadays, the majority are fond memories, to whom I have not spoken in years. Others, meanwhile, remain my closest friends. The gulf is polarising; it’s one or the other—almost as if one group has a life the other lacks.

The first life of a friendship is lost when two people last interact. We can picture people as threads: individually, they dance and weave and bob, but occasionally some move in tandem, in friendship. The first death occurs the last time two threads intertwine. Since us mortals can’t see all time at once, we don’t know when this death occurs. And I hate that. The worst thing ever is when threads pull apart, thinking they will meet again, only for that to have been their last interaction. We can only hope that such a friendship is cryogenic, hibernating, dormant—that we will weave together our two threads one more time, and say good-bye properly.

III. Weaving

After finishing Dandelion Wine, I reread the foreword. Bradbury mentions that when writing the book, he “borrowed [his] friend John Huff… and shipped him East to Green Town so that [he] could say good-bye to him properly.” This helped my tears dry. It helped, knowing that their friendship was lying in slumber the whole time—merely in abeyance—waiting for a reunion. It’s nice when threads recross.

Once, at a Model UN conference, I met a kid from the UChicago Lab Schools: I. We were, for those four days, the bestest of friends. Afterward, we exchanged numbers and wished each other good luck—there was a tacit understanding that we wouldn’t see each other again.

Some months later, touring UChicago, I stood in the Ratner Athletics Center, learning about UChicago’s twenty NCAA Division III varsity sports and thirty-two intramural sports. Then, in textbook ‘cocktail party effect’ fashion, my trance was broken, as I heard an “Oliver!” from my left. My head swivelled, expecting some person addressing some other Oliver. Instead, I. was running toward me, basketball in hand. That moment meant so much to me. It meant that months measured the first lifespan of our friendship, not days. And perhaps I’ll see him in Hyde Park this autumn—and then years will be the units.

All this is a long-winded way of saying that winding together threads is beautiful, and keeps a friendship’s first life afloat. Unfortunately, the world isn’t fair. John Huff’s father gets a job in Milwaukee, my high school times end, and threads drift apart, never to cross again. Like taxes, this first death is certain.

IV. “What color eyes I got?”

Someday, we might be eighty
And think about the different things we used to say
All the memories of you will just become a ghost of a smile
Caught in the wind
—  last cup of coffee, Lily Ki

At Loomis, I’ve met my closest friends. We’ve lived together in dorms, peer-reviewed dozens of essays, and cheered on one another at meets, games, and competitions. We compare linalg problem-sets over hotpot or Korean BBQ, and go to brunch every Saturday. I’ve slept at their houses, they at mine. Next year, we won’t live within earshot of one another, we won’t Uber to town together, and we won’t have group chats for every class. It'll suck.

Loomis’s annual senior magazine is called the Confluence—a wonderful metaphor. In geography, a confluence is a meeting of rivers. They come from different origins, flow together for a while, and eventually diverge again. Our divergence is confirmed; binding college results have begun trickling in—a pipe dream where all of us remain together has long since been buried (I could at least be with M. in Hyde Park…). The first death is imminent. Now, I panic. Will I be able to remember them? Will they remember me?

In Dandelion Wine, John pleads to Douglas, “[p]romise you’ll remember me, promise you’ll remember my face and everything.” Hastily, Douglas reassures him that it’ll be “[e]asy as pie. Got a motion-picture machine in my head.” John doubts that, and tests Douglas. He orders Douglas to close his eyes, and to guess what color eyes John has. Douglas doesn’t know. He stalls, protests, and eventually tries “brown!” John’s eyes are green.

If you asked me for the colors of my best friends’ eyes, I’d fare no better. I could wager some good guesses for half of them, owing to their being Asian. But if I’m to be honest?

I haven’t a clue.

V. The Second Life

The notion that humans die twice—once when their body stops functioning and again when their name is last said—is a widely subscribed one, espoused by the likes of Banksy, Ernest Hemingway, and the Ancient Egyptians. I find it applicable to friendships, too—which is why the idea of remembrance has repeatedly reared its head throughout this essay.

However, the analogous component does not slot in so smoothly: we know what it means to remember a person. What does it mean to remember a friendship? Intuitively, there’s a notion of sharedness for friendship; there can be unrequited love, but not unrequited friendship. Similarly, the first life of a friendship elapses simultaneously for both people—it’s shared. Thus, I’d posit that the second life acts similarly—it dies simultaneously for both. But is it when the first person forgets, or the second? I think the first—there cannot be unrequited friendship.

Earlier, we concluded that the first death is certain. Luckily, the second isn’t, because we can preserve memory.

VI. Amber / Conclusions

朋友啊 让我们一起牢牢铭记呀
我们今生兄弟情谊长
Friend, let us together remember well
This life, our brotherly friendship lasts eternally
— 今生缘, 川子

I do, throughout this essay, exaggerate. I will remember all of my close friends, there’s no question. Their faces, their voices, their typing idiosyncrasies (why does J. capitalise the start of his sentences but not the first-person singular ‘I’?), and so on. But I’ll forget some stuff, and I’d like to minimise that—to preserve the memory best I can. I’ve noticed that I’ve been taking more photos recently. As have they.

A friendship has two lives. Many of my friendships will have their first one frozen soon. But that’s okay. Because I’ll unthaw them as much as I can, and I’ll never let the second one go out. And there’s lots on the horizon—the question is where my Milwaukee will be. I’ve thought about that a bit, and I’d like it to be 92.6 miles (149.03 km) south of the real one, in Bradbury’s state.

*One of the other options UChicago gave to write about was on a Fermi problem. I’m a suck-up, I know.