Rules for Visiting

by Jessica Francis Kane

Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends

Beowulf’s Grendel traveled off the moors to visit Heorot because he wanted to stand listening outside the great hall of friendship. Shall I tell you that I know something of how he felt? I may not eat anyone, but transformations are not always violent or even physical.

Ask me for my biography and I will tell you the books I have read.’”

And yet we rarely greet one another with more than a wave. And that’s fine because, frankly, when do you work into a conversation the difficult details of your life? Am I supposed to give them all the information for their benefit, to explain my eccentricities? Maybe I should put up a sign? Yes. Let’s all have signs up and down the street announcing our personal disasters and disappointments.

And the yew is thriving. In fact, there is something about the yew only Blake and I know, and I caught his eye across the table at lunch. It was our job to care for the trees in that section of the university gardens, including regularly calculating height and girth. The yew is a long-​lived species, and slow growing; it usually takes about ten years to reach a height of six feet. My yew was fifteen years old and had already reached twenty. Blake and I didn’t know why, but the yew appeared to be growing inexplicably fast.

I’ve read that the local school crossing guard is not allowed to touch anyone crossing the street, not even the little old ladies who stand on the curb and flutter their elbows like wings for assistance, because if something were to happen, the liability for the city is too great. We hurl ourselves around in cars, but we’re not allowed to touch each other crossing the street?

It’s an absurd arrangement, and by that I mean there are ironies everywhere the world does not allow you to talk about even half as much as you’d like.

We did have a complete set of The Oxford English Dictionary, all twenty volumes. My father gave it to my mother when I was born, a way to remind her that although her circumstances had drastically changed, the language hadn’t.

I was not interested in finding out who I was alone, which seemed to be the goal of many who explore the power of a year’s effort toward something. I knew that person and I was tired of her. I didn’t want to take her to Italy, or hike a long trail, climb a mountain, or camp in the woods.

Some people are good at telling stories about themselves. I know this is called sharing and it’s considered a virtue, but generally when I try to talk about myself the stories come out fast and abbreviated. I don’t know the word for this. Repressed, probably. But couldn’t it just as well be modest?

Here’s a question: If a friend tries to make conversation out of a social media post you’ve already seen, do you let her? Consider it, because new material can be awkward.

The more I stared at her, the more I thought she looked like someone remembering to smile, not someone who was actually smiling.

I don’t have a daughter and I don’t know if I ever will. But if I do, we will not carry this sadness forward. I’m tired of holding it.

He said recent measurements indicated those trees, too, were growing much faster than they should have been. Blake had talked with several people at the U.S. Forest Service about what he was noticing on campus and they told him recent measurements from around the world showed mature evergreens of all species now regularly exceeding previously recorded height records by twenty to thirty feet. “Why?” I asked. Blake settled a little coral impatiens bursting with buds into the soil. “Global warming,” he said. “I think they’re trying to save us.” I pretended to have some trouble getting the next seedling out of its flat so he wouldn’t see my eyes filling with water.

The solitude has a way of loosening memories, and when they start to unfurl I’m at risk of being blown off course.

I’m aware not everyone feels the way I do about trees, but I have no idea why not.

I hoped for a breeze or a bit of birdsong—something that would acknowledge my presence. I’ve always wanted the pathetic fallacy—the idea that the natural world takes an interest in our affairs—to be true. Sometimes the signs are clear: rain falling on the president at the inauguration. Other times the indifference is haunting: a clear September day filled with death.

Perhaps a best friend is someone who … holds the story of your life in mind. Sometimes in music a melodic line is so beautiful the notes feel inevitable; you can anticipate the next note through a long rest. Maybe that is friendship. A best friend holds your story in mind so notes don’t have to be repeated.

We don’t have music to reveal the direction of our lives, of course, but if we did, I’m pretty sure mine would have soared just then.

Blake came up to me and said, “Did you know giraffes hum at night? Janine told me.” He looked delighted.

I wish my mother could see me. I wish she were sitting quietly somewhere at this party, just watching. I don’t want her to be impressed; I just want her to see how it’s possible to order a life, how it’s possible “to gather all accidents into our purpose.”

I dreamed recently that I had only a few minutes to write something about each of my friends but couldn’t find pen or paper. So I started writing with my finger in the sand and everyone gathered around to read. We were staying together in a house by the sea. The dream made me happy because—I’ll admit it—I’ve always loved those books where friends gather for a weekend and lives are changed.