Unlike a 19th Century explorer-poet I have not sailed over the unfathomable ocean out of contact, but out of sight is certainly out of mind. We’re unbelievably connected, with a US phone number, mailing address and the immediate internet. And yet, I seemed to have lost my friends and relations. They never write, they never call, no one comes to visit. It makes me sad every day.

But it has been four years. And they’ve been busy, building careers and families. We’ve had some stuff going on but our circle is small and once we were settled not much changed. I don’t have colleagues (besides Malcolm and the dogs) and I rarely leave the house. At this point you are thinking that I’m a friendless loser due to reclusive tendencies and a misguided sense of my pets’ intelligence. And you are correct. But it was not always so. I once was what they call outgoing. I went out. In boots. I had cocktails in shiny bars and coffee in cozy overstuffed chairs with my dear, darling friends. We went to museums and performances and shows and chatted over thousands of glasses of wine. We threw parties and played games and had brunch. Then I moved away.

Maybe if I was more memorable I would not have been forgotten. Maybe it was inevitable. What we’re doing is not usual and it’s not always easy to relate to. I almost wish we didn’t have so many means and medias. If my loved ones stopped writing in the 1800’s I would just assume they had contracted tuberculosis or cholera. And that might be easier to accept.

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