The Leprechaun
The Leprechaun
Words on vanishing friends and a B-side from the archives
I like to picture a small mythical creature. Not like a monster or anything that’s overtly not of this world, but a gnome who sort of blends right in. Like a leprechaun without the St. Patrick’s Day theme.
I like to imagine the little guy shows up on the last day I’m going to see someone, but I have no idea it’s the last time. Maybe it’s a friend I’ve known for years, with whom the relationship has ebbed and flowed, and has recently required real effort to maintain. Or someone I’ve worked with and really enjoy, so I swear I’m going to keep in touch after the job is done. Maybe it’s my ex, who I’ve forged a friendship with and it’s been healthy and solid ever since the breakup.
We’re sitting there, sharing a cup of coffee, when the not-necessarily-Irish leprechaun shows up out of nowhere, stands beside my table, looks at the two of us and says, “this is the last time you’re going to see each other.”
I’m fascinated by the last time. I never really get used to the idea, though I suppose it’s not something I could get used to because we rarely know it’s happening. I feel like as people, we forge these intense relationships, and the start date is usually memorable, possibly even acknowledged at some point in conversation if the relationship becomes significant. But the end date?
I can’t remember the last time I saw them.
That phrase is as common as any of the idioms I’ve heard repeated throughout my life. Because people come and people go, and most of it isn’t planned, and if it was, I believe most of us would still probably avoid the long, drawn out goodbye. I’ve wondered if maybe it’s the lifestyle I’ve chosen. I tend to work on creative projects for a period of time, and so I’m introduced to new people regularly and the relationships go from 0 to 10 because creativity can require a certain amount of vulnerability. So there are intense bonds that form, but not enough hours in the day or days in the year to maintain all of them once the thing that’s put us in a room together no longer ties us. Our paths will diverge, and I’ll recall them at some point, realizing there was a last time, but neither of us acknowledged it.
That’s why I think about the leprechaun. Imagine if the end was commemorated right there in the moment. The awkwardness of it. The forced reflection in real time. I’ve had an absolute blast with this person. We’ve laughed so much, my sense of humor maybe even changing a bit due to spending so much time together. We vow to keep in touch. To get coffee. Do drinks. And then the leprechaun appears. “This is the last time you’re going to see each other.”
After working through the discomfort of it and discussing how wild it is that leprechauns are both real and from the future, would we do anything differently? Or would we just double down on the vow, regardless of the fact that fate would run it’s course? Or maybe if it was an old friend, I’d realize in that moment that there was a hurdle at some point and neither of us faced it, and now there’s a forced vulnerability. We’re working through the shit now, all thanks to the leprechaun.
I’ve had this mental fixation since I was younger. I think I was uncomfortable with the idea that people come and go from our lives. It felt like they left with a part of me, and that didn’t seem fair. I’ve since grown comfortable with the idea that people can be seasons. Sometimes they have to be. There’s no sense in stretching winter out any longer than it is.
Below is a song I wrote a long time ago about what happens when you buck the motion of the waves. It’s a song about the realization that the only ties you have left with a person are behind you. It’s about ignoring the leprechaun and saying, “No. I refuse.” And you sit down for coffee and try to connect, but the only thing you share at this point is everything you left behind.