I took a walk with Phil. It took us a while to coordinate our meet up— our phones weren’t playing well with the Canadian cell service. I sat myself on a stone bench at a park on Place D’Youville and sent my location, hoping my phone wouldn’t die before we made contact. About seven minutes later, Phil rolled up, looking sharp as always. We hit the streets, looping through the cobblestones of Montreal’s old town. I read an article a couple years ago about how walking with someone, shoulder to shoulder, is a way better way of catching up because you’re moving together in the same direction. It’s a co-creation. Plus, walking in new cities happens to be one of my favorite things to do.
Phil and I made our way through the neighborhood, passing a vape pen back and forth a few times. We ordered some overly-sugared and overly-priced juice from a stand right in the center of town. I snapped a few photographs, like this one. We talked about depth in male friendships, how we crave them and that it’s getting harder and harder to make time and space for superficiality in friendships. There’s so much housekeeping, so many happenings that feel important to share, but also can distract from the real, deep, juicy stuff. We continued to turn down random streets, buying time with each other, digging in to what’s been on our hearts recently, knowing that we had too short of time to talk about all that has transpired in the last 7 years since we last saw each other. Sometimes you need a container, an end in sight, to help you sink deeper into presence with a friend. No time for bullshit. We agreed that we’d send each other photos from our lives. We’d pick up the phone if we felt called to it. We’d try not to ask each other, “How have you been?” in that way that means nothing.
We arrived at Phil’s hotel and he offered me a ride back to where I was staying. I gladly took the ride, my legs were tired from walking all day and I was happy to have a little more time with Phil. We pulled up to my spot, grateful that we’d be seeing each other the following weekend at another friend’s wedding. There’d be so much more to dig into, more deep conversation to be had. But the following weekend, on the morning of the wedding, I got a text that read, “Bad news Jesse." All of the flights to Philly had been cancelled. He wasn’t going to make the wedding. Our walk in Montreal would be the last time I’d see him during this chapter of travel. He, in Florida, and I, heading back to Alaska, retreating to the opposite ends of the country. As I flew back to my home, away from the many familiar loved ones of my past, I remembered what my mom often says to me.
“I never knew my heart could stretch that far.”
