De Amicitia

I have two good friends, men who I trust to listen to me talk about my wildest schemes or my worst fiascos without judgment or reproach. One might expect a bit of specialization in that one of these men is a bit more mechanical and the other somewhat more intellectual, but both have been of more support to me than they’ll probably ever know.

I look to them for advice and, when they’re not available, I try to imagine what they would suggest. My most stringent reality test is to tell one of these men what I am considering; often it’s enough simply to organize the telling for me to know whether I’m off the mark.

And when it’s a tough go, it helps put things in order just to explain it to them. Their measured responses and shared experience compose my own.

Oh I use these men, mercilessly. And to show my gratitude I poke fun at them in public, ridicule their habits and scoff at their opinions; I trust them to know that, were I to express my appreciation in real terms, it would be as blubbery and maudlin as this ode. Still, this fault is mine.

These men are my friends. Because of them, because I even know them, my darker hours have been illuminated and my brighter days better informed.