My son came home upset... His friend was moving away. I promised we would visit
hen I was a young child in primary school, my best friend emigrated to Australia with her family. Moving to the other side of the world was a big, life-changing decision. People rarely returned home for Christmas or family weddings. Keeping in touch with loved ones meant writing letters and the odd phone call. Saying goodbye wasn’t quite the American Wake my parents spoke of – that belonged to a different generation, where the person leaving for far-flung shores was waked before they left, with little expectation they would ever return home. But it was still the other side of the world and it was still hugely upsetting.
I remember the shock of how sudden it felt, but I couldn’t comprehend how final it would be. I didn’t understand that I wouldn’t see my friend again. Social media wouldn’t come into our sphere of existence for at least 15 years. We had a landline in our house, but there was no way I was ever allowed to phone Australia! Her departure felt abrupt but life carried on. I had other friends but there was a void shaped like her and I never forgot her.
Years later, I contemplated reaching out on social media. I hesitated, wondering if ‘Hi, do you remember me?’ would be too weird a Facebook message to receive after years without contact. In the end, I never sent that message. A childhood friendship is easily forgotten amid the busyness of life, except perhaps in moments of sudden loneliness, when we remember good times spent together and imagine how things might have been different.
Two years ago, my son came home from school upset. His friend was moving away.
Looking at the tears shining in his eyes, the sadness on his face, I felt it again. The suddenness of a lifechanging decision, the impeding loss of friendship, dreading something but knowing it’s out of your control. Their closeness had formed in playschool and was a solid constant that made everything better. The boys have similar temperaments, a calm steadiness amid shared interests. In a small rural school, the loss of a close friend was amplified and my son was gutted.
His friend’s family was relocating to Switzerland. When I heard that I smiled in relief – that’s not as far away as Australia. I promised him we would visit and I fully intended to keep my promise. I desperately wanted to ‘fix’ his upset because I knew exactly how he felt. He began to save. Every euro received was put into a metal tin, earmarked for our trip to Switzerland. He never forgot to ask if I had booked our flights yet, so frequently I wondered if he had set up some form of reminder.
I reassured him I’d keep my promise, but life is busy, and there was always something else to do with the money ear-marked for flights, or somewhere we needed to be on a particular weekend. One trip was arranged, availing of cheap flights into Italy and planning several train journeys across the Italian landscape into Switzerland. But as a fledgling author, I had to take an opportunity when it arose, and the trip was postponed. He was crushed, and I’m sure his friend was disappointed. Still too young for social media, they kept in touch using FaceTime, but it wasn’t the same. Conversation was stilted, connection centred around Match Attax cards and soccer stars, but still, worth the smile on his face. I made sure to make time to take him there and mid-summer, I booked our flights.
Mid-November was a date that suited our family and theirs. We didn’t travel through Italy this time, but via Zurich and Geneva. We packed gloves and woolly hats, and of course, every Match Attax card my son owned. He began to count down the sleeps and finally stopped sleeping altogether with the happy anticipation of seeing his friend again.
My apprehension was growing in tandem with his excitement – it was a long time since I had travelled abroad alone, the only responsible adult in our party of two. One of our four flights was cancelled. Another was delayed, so that we had a Home Alone-style dash through Amsterdam airport to make our connecting flight to Zurich. One train journey was cancelled, which resulted in three others to reroute to where we wanted to go. But we got there.
The boys greeted each other like the old friends they are and immediately began a video-game marathon, while I quietly congratulated myself on getting there.
The days flew past in a blur of vin chaud, a gorgeously spiced mulled wine, hot chocolate, ice skating and snowball fights. The boys chatted long into the night while I gazed at the snow-topped mountains under the stars. It was a wonderful visit to, hopefully, lifelong friends.
Emigration isn’t what it once was. My youngest sister lives in Canada. The once trusted method of staying in touch, letters home, have been replaced with daily WhatsApp messages. Video calls allow us to see and speak to her, keeping us close. And international travel has expanded such that we can plan and reroute our journey with relative ease. Though it hurts to say goodbye, we no longer have to ‘wake’ someone that is moving abroad, no matter how far away they plan to go.
As for my son, he is saving again, and counting down the days until our next trip to see his friend. It has been inspiring to see how time and distance hasn’t diminished their friendship in any way. Who knows, I might end up sending that message…
In the Shadows by Amy Cronin is published by Poolbeg and available in bookshops and ebook
The Jakke chunky peachy knit is made from recycled polyester and is the perfect antidote to banish the January blues. €179, gallery9.ie
How would that happen, exactly (I’m asking for a friend)?
Consider the problem of plaid. I’m considering.
Put your plaid together with a crucifix necklace and platform boots and where are you?
On stage with Madonna?
No, trapped in the 2021 gothcore trend.
I’m sensing that you don’t approve of trends with the suffix ‘core’.
They don’t have the intellectual weight of dark academia.
You mean I can’t wear plaid, then?
Make it a plaid mac and layer it with a wool coat inherited from your great uncle (plus a vintage shirt and moth-eaten cardigan) and you’re squarely in dark academia territory.
Right. Platform boots, bad. Ancient cardigan, good.
Although there is some cardigan-based debate among the dark academic purists.