out of sight, out of mind

بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

Once, my wife revealed to me that she used to think that life hits pause for everyone else when she left the room. They remain suspended in a time capsule, in the same position that they were last seen in until their lifeless bodies are reanimated by her return.

The thought of that scenario playing out felt so cartoonish that it dampened the slight terror in my mind that I had missed a series of red flags and married a full-blown narcissist. Despite the comedic overtone, I knew she was being earnest. How many of us unconsciously do the same with people in our lives? Imagine them as static fixtures with supplementary roles in our stories, rather than the fully fleshed protagonists of their own narratives.

I went for coffee with an old friend last week. Maybe six years prior, without any announcement he left the group chat, and from there, in all manner besides explicitly stating it, we were seemingly cut off. From what I can recall it didn’t become a major talking point, just a thing that happened in the midst of many things happening in our frantic twenties. He would pop up in my mind now and again, but eventually even that became infrequent.

The first time I stepped into a mosque as a 15 year old, I was with him. We used to trade playground arguments about religion during the height of what seemed like a wave of young Black men in South London converting to Islam. Today we greeted each other with salam. Sitting across from each other in a café in Croydon, the borough that moulded our teenage years, it was as clear as the environment itself that whilst some things remained the same, much of everything else had changed. For one, besides (perhaps finally) embracing Islam myself, I was married, and a father too. Between sips of coffee we caught up on what we’d been getting up to. I showed him pictures of my son. We spoke about family, and careers and navigating life through the pandemic.

As we walked through Croydon as we had done so many times before, we recounted long bus trips to Shirley on the 194 bus; recording music at our friend’s house in Streatham, and I was reunited with a version of me that only exists in memories accessible to a finite few. Whilst we have the impression that the only “me” is the one that sees through these eyes and feels via this skin, in our shared interactions we realise that we exist in multiple forms; in our minds and in the minds of those who have experienced us.

We got to an alley-way, where he lit a cigarette. Nostalgia having bridged the gulf of unspoken conversations, I felt comfortable enough to ask candidly.

“Bro, why did you disappear like that?”.

He half-smiled and nodded as if he had been waiting for me to bring it up.

“You see back in the day, a man would leave the village for 5 years, come back with a wife and kids and pick things back up with the mandem like nothing’s changed. I kind of thought it would be like that, but obviously things happen in that time...

We laughed but quietly acknowledged that there was more to it. He disclosed that last year he emerged from a hazy period of heavy weed consumption, increased isolation and overthinking. A creeping feeling of life not shaping out as expected can do that to you. We had more in common in that experience than maybe he knew. We both opened up more.

I got rid of Whatsapp because I knew being constantly bombarded with messages from people, as jokes as they were, wasn’t normal”

But the fact that we were face-to-face talking, maybe a week after he sent me a text reaching out exposed my own failings as a friend. For him, it only took a desire to connect and repair. Both our numbers were the same. We never had a falling out. At any point, I could have called to check on him. But once he opted out of the ongoing stream of Whatsapp group chats and the impromptu link ups that it facilitated, it’s like he slowly ceased to exist.

I’m embarrassed to think about how I might have responded if he called me out on this. He would have been within his rights to do so, and had I chosen the defensive route, I’d be on shaky ground. But he didn’t.

Looking back at my wife, I recognise now that maybe she was being more honest than I could ever dare to be out loud in admitting that she used to feel like people stopped living when she wasn’t there. As we inhabit busier, more socially fractured lives and our attentions privilege those that unfold immediately in front of us - or through regular updates on our devices - the tendency for an out of sight, out of mind reality gathers more strength.

I look enviously at the strong ties my parents managed to maintain across cities and continents with family and friends and wonder if there is an art to connection that has been lost inter-generationally. They are at the age where most of their social lives are performed within the backdrop of funerals, and though culturally specific, I’m reminded that death can often go hand-in-hand with remembrance of your ties. So too can new life. After having children you begin to consolidate your inner community. You more carefully consider what energy you want to allow around. People leave and people enter, but ties form stronger because the stakes are more precious.

Once the remains of the cigarette were discarded, my friend and I walked towards the Bus station. As we stood under the shelter, he reminded me of a text that he sent me on Eid.

“…I still consider you to be like family g.”

More memories flooded back. We gave each other salams and went on our way.

If you enjoy my reflections, subscribe and get a weekly essay sent straight to your inbox!