An Irish Exit: Leaving the Light on

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with a friendship that ends without so much as a whisper. No final conversation, just distance and differences that eventually grow a divide so wide that it can’t be crossed over. It’s hard to articulate the feelings associated and to try comprehending what caused the divide without answers to never ending questions.

Noah Kahan released a song this week in anticipation of his new album, The Great Divide, with the new single being the headliner. His songs often articulate the thoughts I want to put into words, and this new song is no exception. This month, I’ve acknowledged a loss of a friendship. The loss wasn’t loud, it was more of an Irish exit. A quiet walking away. It took a moment to realize the silence meant they were gone. Even then, silence had to linger until I understood its meaning. Even in the silence, I was anchoring myself in hope. In a metaphorical sense, I left a porch light on, hoping they’d know they can always come back and I’ll always be there.

Hope held the shape of a little home filled with memories of how things used to be. Nostalgia can often take you out of what your current reality is. Nostalgia wore off slowly and the realization arrived that things would never be how they were before. I’d left the metaphorical porch light on for so long that the light began to flicker, desiring to be changed. Eventually, the home of hope became a museum of grief over what can’t be replicated or replaced. The memories of who they were and the connection still exist, but the sign on the door inviting you in isn’t the same anymore. It’s in a different time and space, no longer the same. The porch light went black and so it got changed. It’s still on, but we both know it’s not the same.

This little home in my mind and the preserved porch light grew a fence around it. An ending without explanation unintentionally taught me to brace for disappearance and expect rejection. This new fence meant I can prevent that before it happens; if I don’t let anyone in, they can’t see what’s inside my house. I see it in myself, in the way I approach new friendships. I pause before ever stepping into them because I expect rejection. I meet people at the fence line, not allowing them to cross it. It’s prevalent in the small moments, so subtle that if I wasn’t paying attention, I wouldn’t catch it. A heart drop when someone asks to go thrifting or becoming flustered when asked what my tattoo means. A subtle ache surfaces, and the fence rises higher.

Yet, as I sit on my little porch with this new light on, I realize how quiet everything is. Life is changing around me and my home stays the same. I’m surrounded by memories, boxes of hope packed away, and an art gallery depicting my grief. Trying to make sense of how this home stuck in the past can move forward without their presence and the version of myself that existed in that.

I sit and realize I don’t want my little fence up anymore – my home needs remodeling. Acknowledging an ambiguous loss is a type of grief that makes you sit in an uncomfortable space within a ‘great divide’. Space that has no answers, and it’s as if you’re watching a flower bloom backwards, watching all the petals return to a bud. Constantly trying to trace the space across the divide to see if it can be crossed only shows that it can’t be anymore. Rather than trying to make it across or force petals to bloom again, you become content on your side of the divide – wishing them well and hoping for all the joy they dream of, while also moving along. The porch light stays on, even if it’s not the same anymore, and the fence line can come down.

It is possible for a space for grief and growth to coexist. For missing what is gone and allowing space for something new to arrive. To remember the past tenderly and not close off possibilities of joy with fences built up; to allow the future to unfold, without reservation or fear of what may come.