A good friend

This past year, I have emailed my friend David every few months to see if he has time to have lunch with me. He always has time. We like to meet at a restaurant in Berkeley or Oakland.

In 1995, I suffered a major depression. At the time, it seemed as if life was collapsing in on me, loose ends fraying, so many things uncertain. After I’d been diagnosed and was placed on anti-depressants, I was granted three months leave with pay from the part time position I held in a little church on the Peninsula South of San Francisco. So now, the days that had once been filled with so many things – important to me – were quiet, empty. I sat often in a comfortable chair in the little room at the back of our flat on Sunnyslope Avenue in Oakland, looking out the window, drawing, reading.

And when they were able, friends would join me, for a walk, for a talk. I will always remember those who were so faithful in their friendship, whose kindness helped me get through.

Even when I was young, I had good friends. One time, Mom mentioned that to me: “you’ve always had good friends, Mary Elyn.”

David was one of those friends. He was still working at the time, as a therapist and as a writer. Every week, I walked from our house down Grand Avenue toward Lake Merritt, and over to Lakeshore Avenue, to a little greasy spoon. David and I would have lunch. The time we spent together was a gift to me, and I have not forgotten. I remember his kindness. I remember his friendship.

Over the course of COVID, I made sure to connect with David once again, and now we’ve been seeing one another for lunch – every few months now – in the same neighborhood as before, the old place gone. The last time we had lunch, as David and I stood on the street, before returning to our cars, he looked down at me (David is tall!) and said: “you’re a good friend.”

He’s the good friend, the good, solid, long time friend, of infinite value.