But Do You Ever Say It?

In Hawaii, one of my closest friends (there are not many left. If you
move to Hawaii and stay long enough almost everyone you met who had also moved
to Hawaii will move away) who I have known the longest (we met while working at
Borders *sigh* Borders) has, for I’m not sure how long told me that he loves me
at the end of his voicemails and emails and maybe even a couple of times in
person. At first, this made me sort of uncomfortable for some reason (for the
record he would rather date Keanu than me). Despite this not having an iota of
romance attached to it, it kind of felt weird that someone who I wasn’t related
to or dating was saying it to me. I am trying to get over this.

My friend Joe’s dog is very sick. He is very sick and we are all very
sad (Joe, stop reading NOW-not even halfway). Everyone has been doing
everything that they can to make it better but in reality there is not much
that can be done. In addition to dog sickness in Joe’s life, there has been the
car breaking down in rush hour traffic in New Jersey with the dog in the
backseat, work drama with adults acting like children and ridiculous things
like a running toilet. All these things are a lot. We are all doing what we can
but sometimes we feel like it is not enough. The other night when Joe was
stranded at his Mom’s with his dog, no computer and no car I did the only thing
I thought I could and told Joe that we loved him (yes the royal we). We do. My
Mom treats Joe like the son she never had. It is crazy really. The first time
that my Mom met Joe, I will never forget. He was wearing all black and I am
relatively certain he had on the shirt with the bats on it and he had this wild
crazy curly long 80s hair and he looked all gothed out. On my driveway in the
middle of white trash suburban NY. Now Joe owns a home within walking distance
to my Mom and although neither would like to admit it, they depend on each
other. In different ways and for different things but they would both be hard
pressed to get along without each other. I like that.

Today my friend Yvette sent me a comment and ended by telling me she
loved me. It made me warm and tingly and happy. True love sent miles and miles
helping me get through a tough day. I believe that the thrill of expressing the
love matches the happiness of receiving it. So, yeah, the people in your life
probably know it. They do know it. But it is so nice, so, so nice when they are
actually told in some fashion….words via email, voicemail, face to face. Those words
that are likely not used enough. So don’t be afraid. Spread some love around
this weekend. Not flippant commentary, meaningless syllables….say it like you
mean it to the few, the worthy in your life. The ones who have made a
difference for you; who have made you who you are; who have been there for you
in small ways and big ones. Scary? Likely. Satisfying? Absolutely.

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About nematomorph

Living like the rich and famous, splitting time between Hawaii and New York.
This entry was posted in Hawaii, New York and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to But Do You Ever Say It?

  1. lavagal says:

    I told my friend and colleague Lisa that this week, in an email. I’d tell others, but they don’t want to know, or they cannot handle it. And I’m too intense for most people anyway. I’m always telling Charlotte to quit loving the lizards to death, because they always die. MiniMe. It’s hard. How do you let people know how much you care AND tell them there are no strings attached so they don’t get all weird and disappear? There’s only one world, only one time. I’m not banking on a spiritual convention on the other side of life.

    Best wishes to Joe. It is so sad to hear about Nitro failing. Pets deeply enrich our lives.

    Hey girl. I miss ya and I love ya.

    Luv,
    me.

  2. You stink! Does WordPress pay you for making me cry? I love you guys. You’re all my NORMAL family!

  3. Anna says:

    All ur friends at Hmsa love & miss u terribly. I am in awe of u & this endeavor. Relish every moment with ur mom Kim.

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