It has been months since my dad died.

I don’t know that one ever gets used to living in a world without parents. Granted, this, like all things, is relative, as some have parents their entire lives and others never do, but I did and now I don’t.

Turns out, there’s always room for more emptiness.

The concept of the sandwich generation—adults caring for their children while also providing increasingly more care for their own parents—is common enough. Most of us experience some version of it, a life of garnish stacked thick along our respective journeys from one slice to the other. These are the roles we have all been given: we are all the heel, and we are all the hero. Bread puns are optional, but appreciated.

Everything is appreciated.

It is July 31, 2025, and I miss my dad. I miss his love and pride for my boys, and the way he laughed at their antics. I miss his thoughts on the world, religion and politics, even though I rarely agreed with any of them. I miss his constant need for coffee and his want for kindness. I miss missing him, with so many miles between us. But today, mostly, I miss calling to wish him a happy birthday.

We would have sang to him, and it would have sounded awful.

He would have loved it.

My dad, Marana Mayor Ed Honea, passed on November 22, 2024. His service was held on December 21, 2024—a day on which he was honored by Governor Hobbs ordering all flags flown at half-staff—and I was one of the speakers. It was a marvelous event, and our family is forever grateful to the town of Marana for all that they did. After the ceremony, I was asked to make my words available online, which is why I’m here on this website again, some 5+ years after I rode into the proverbial digital sunset. The eulogy for my father is included below, as well as his obituary. There will be more words to come.

A Eulogy

On behalf of the family, I would like to thank the Town of Marana and the community of Marana, for providing this beautiful space, doing the endless work to create this overwhelming celebration of, and for, my father, and for the kind words so many of you have shared in that regard.

Over the years, I haven’t had a lot of opportunity to come back to Marana, but thankfully, in October of this year I was able to take off work and spend some time with my dad, driving through new neighborhoods were nostalgia used to be, learning about growth, improvements and visions for tomorrow: walking paths to everywhere. I attended town functions and the grand opening of a supermarket 17 years in the making. Everywhere we went in the greater Marana area, everyone knew my dad, which, due to his position, wasn’t that surprising, but what really impressed me was that he knew them, too. I mean, he really knew them. He had two stories for every person he introduced me to—both of them nice—his mind a Rolodex of familial lore and business lunches.

In turn, the people I met, without fail, shared their personal thoughts on my father—most of them hardly cursing at all—to the person they were warm, sincere and deeply moving. They had nothing to gain from taking me aside and opening up like that, and they certainly didn’t owe it to me, but they went out of their way to do so because it, he, meant that much to them. There were stories of faith, community, friendship and respect, never a political word betwixt, just generous tales of sincere kindness.

I must admit, it was eye-opening, for as long as he had been a staple of service to the town of Marana, he had been “just dad” all the longer. Obviously, I knew him to be a good man, damn good, but my lens offered a slightly different perspective.

My earliest memories are of sitting on a shrinking lap, a slice of jean-covered thigh quickly losing ground between the random growth spurts of a lanky boy and the constant expansion of an ex-smoker’s belly. I sat there for years sharing tickles, snacks, and forgotten conversations, my sister sitting opposite, bouncing giggles off of red-brick walls, shedding freckles into the ether. There was a montage of facial hair, and I was captivated by its splendor or the sudden lack of it. Everything was long legs and gangly tussles, and I nestled happily in the swell of my father’s content.

The years stretched and the stories we planted sprouted stories of their own—each blooming with milestones, lessons, and the fragrant sweetness of life in hindsight, fond memories wafting down a timeline, always spinning toward what will be beneath the stretching shadows of what has been, the world a blur and somewhat dizzy.

We spent days together that grew into weeks, rolled into months, and segued into years as smooth as you like. I was hanging one arm out the window of a blue and bruised Datsun pickup, home in the welcome give of a worn bench seat, my father popping pistachios in time to an AM radio already out of date. I was bronze and blond, buck-toothed and skinny, my sister in the middle, squeezed to the point of laughter. My father was a smile in sunglasses, a song on his breath, and he was younger than I ever knew. Together we were glorious, a slideshow rolling toward that sinking horizon we spend our whole lives chasing.

Of course, the journey also took us through fields of frustration—fortunately those are all housing developments now—and there were sidetracks and shortcuts, disappointment and heartache, but all days ended in sunsets and every morning the sun would rise. There were birds in the distance and a whistle brought them nearer.

He raised pigeons. And ducks. And geese. And chickens, rabbits, horses, sheep, cows, goats who—and this is true, could eat a whole NERF football faster than I could get into the pen—dogs, cats, hamsters, a ferret and a monkey. And fish, so many that he was deemed Grandpa Fishy by his grandsons.

He delivered mail for decades, a 100-mile route in the Arizona sun. He served his country. He fell in love. He set examples and expectations. He led with kindness and invited you to meet him there. He lived a life worth living.

He cared for his parents, always, but in ways above and beyond through their waning hours. He never left the side of his wife, Jan, as she fought against the cancer that took her far too early.

Generally speaking, there is a clear line between being a character and having character, yet my dad managed both. He was a character with character, a man with simple tastes, folksy, earnest, good-humored, empathetic and honest, but he was also focused, driven, passionate and stubborn. He contained multitudes.

He was proud, but far from boastful, and that pride was centered on two things, the town of Marana and his grandsons. If you ever stepped foot in his home you found yourself in grandkid central, a well-organized museum to their wonder with him the curator, the president of a fan club for three boys who can’t even keep their own rooms clean.

I asked them if they had anything they’d like me share here on their behalf:

Atticus told me, “I always liked how he would take interest in the things I was interested in, like video games and game design, even when he really didn’t understand what I was talking about. He would stand behind me and watch, asking questions and then tying them into other things I was involved in, like my schoolwork or plans for the future.”

Zane added, “It was obvious when you were with him how much he really loved you. He loved his family more than anything. I always felt loved and he showed it—all he ever wanted for Christmas were pictures of us us, the grandkids—just look at his house—or to spend time together as a family.”

Greyson remembers his last trip to Marana, he walked with Grandpa Fishy to the park in Gladden Farms. They didn’t time it right and ended up walking home in the dark. They took a shortcut through the fields behind my dad’s house so they wouldn’t be in traffic. He asked Greyson to be his eyes, which made Grey uncomfortable because it was dark. The path was unknown. It was, admittedly, scary, and it didn’t help that his grandfather filled the time with tales and warnings about the dangers of wild javelina. So yes, Greyson did serve as his grandpa’s eyes, but he did it while clinging to him the entire way back to the house. The javelina, it turns out, wanted nothing to do with them.

My sister’s favorite story is one that she would never let my dad forget, so it’s fitting that she’d bring it up here, just in case he’s listening. Tiffany said, “I remember when he forgot my birthday a million years ago. I wouldn’t let you [me] remind him because I wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out. After two weeks he realized it and bought me a really nice bike, purely out of guilt. We joked about it every year after. I also got spoiled every year after [I can certainly attest to that]. That was over 20 years ago.” Well over 20 years.

The thing is, each of us are the stories being written and we are all living in someone’s memories. We are the extras, the heroes and sometimes the villains of one another. We are scribbles in the margins and footnotes fondly fading. The shadows we cast grow longer as the days grow shorter. We wax. We wane. We give love. We take love. We pull hugs from handshakes, and the emotions on our sleeves often grow heavy and hard to carry. Life has a way of twisting and testing, and it wrings out the innocence with the sweat and the tears, leaving us in the shade of all that we have built, awkward with gratitude and loving one another. We are connected, intertwined, in ways blatant and all too subtle, but together we are better, and together good things get done.

My dad considered himself blessed to have the relationships that he did, and he wasn’t wrong, but I think there are several of us here who would argue that we are the lucky ones. Our stories crossed—some of us from the opening line, some for a paragraph here or a chapter there, some for but this briefest of moments which we are all sharing now—and the pages keep turning, all the better for having known one another.

If you take but one thing from this ceremony today, please make it this: enjoy your story, be the best you that you can be, and love the people in your life, loudly. Do right by one other.

My dad’s life may be over, but his story is still here, and we are all part of it, always. Embrace the memories of the man you knew, the legacy he has left, and share it with those you meet along the way. After all, there are endless ways to spread kindness in a world that sorely needs it, but talking about my dad is a really easy one. His is a story worth telling.

I am honored that you have allowed me to do my part.

Thank you.

Please note, a portion of the eulogy first appeared in a previous piece dedicated to my father, which he absolutely loved. It seemed fitting to rework it again in his honor.

Memorial program photos courtesy of Town of Marana.

An Obituary

Mr. Eddie R. Honea, age 77, of Marana, who preferred to be called Ed, but would also answer to Dad, Grandpa Honea, Grandpa Fishy, Homer and Mayor, passed away unexpectedly on Friday morning, November 22, 2024, at his residence from a sudden cardiac event.

There were three things that Ed cared about above all else: faith, his family and the Town of Marana.

Ed is survived by his son Whitney (Patricia) Honea, daughter Tiffany (Wynter) Phoenix, beloved grandchildren Atticus, Zane and Greyson, his brother Wayne (Cathy) Honea and sister Pam Bramlett, in addition to countless other relatives who will miss him terribly.

Ed was preceded in death by his parents Wynema and Ray Honea, his wife Janice Lawson and former wife Barbara Coatsworth.

His public service to the Town of Marana spanned nearly 40 years, most of which were spent as mayor, but also included terms on the town council.

Before retiring in 2007, he worked for 29 years as a contractor for the U.S. Postal Service in Marana.

He graduated from Marana High School in 1965, attended the U.S. Naval School of Construction and Pima Community College. During the Vietnam War, he served as a member of the U.S. Navy Seabees, and was a lifetime member of VFW Post 5990 in Marana.

He was a member of both Light the Way Lutheran Church and the Community Christian Church of Marana.

Ed was an incredibly caring and kind man, honest and principled, with a warm, gracious demeanor and whimsical sense of humor. He was always in a room of friends, even when opinions differed. If you met him, he wanted to know everything about you—which he would always remember—and in turn, you would learn everything about his grandkids.

Ed Honea was well-loved, and he loved well in return. You really can’t ask for more than that.

The Marana Food Bank & Community Resource Center was near and dear to Ed’s heart. If you are able, in lieu of flowers, please consider a donation in his honor.

Checks made out to the “Marana Food Bank & Community Resource Center” can be sent to:

PO Box 548
Marana, Arizona 85653

Online donations are also accepted at https://www.mfb-crc.org/make-a-donation.

There was a bird in the garden, reckless in its focus, kicking with both feet like a jackhammer upon drought-dried earth, turning turf for the treats that it hid and devouring them in rapid pecks before tilling again and the twigs sent flying. I sat with a book in my hand framing the world so that it appeared the bird bounced atop a page, digging for meaning beneath the words that I read. It felt an empty escape into a timeless moment with nothing to do but be warm and barefoot, light with drink and content upon the back porch as the bird kicked again at one phrase and feasted quickly on another, for what is a story if not the give of plot and soil?

It dawned on me then, when my family was safe and engaged in their own pursuits, and the land was leaping forward despite terrible actions spurred by cries of ignorance and hate, that something had found me there in a place I had long stopped looking—on a random date on a meandering timeline, and perhaps the final notch at that—I had said my piece and then some, too: I was happy.

That isn’t to say I have not felt happiness in bit and bouts. I have seen it here and there, picked it up and carried it for a while, even worn it like a mask and more often armor, but then, when no one was paying me mind and conversations had turned from my own defense I would put it down again, just as I had found it. Then I would watch it run away, free toward places I need forgotten, and let myself deflate like a balloon untied from a string freshly broken.

This was not that. This was not a feeling but rather a being, it was happiness loose and unfettered, an old companion that had long promised to call again suddenly showing up unannounced to remind me of its missing. We sat together, lost in the comfort of one another, until our eyes grew heavy with time and tonic. To any that glanced my way they would see nothing save a bird on a page, a curious smile and a sky now bright burning itself upon the fumes of fading melancholy—the kind of sunset made for the riding off into, and so we did.

There was laughter in the distance, and it rolled nearer upon the tiny feet of tender thunder. I stood and I turned to greet it.

There were butterflies everywhere, so many that I was hesitant to open my mouth for fear one might accept the invitation. Besides, taking this walk was my turn to listen.

The only sounds were a panting dog and the distant waves of traffic.

My oldest son, on the cusp of 16, was a step ahead, leash in hand and disappointment everywhere. The walk had been my idea—even though he and the dog have a daily date to do so—this one wasn’t to schedule and being voluntold for the excursion conflicted with his plans to plan nothing. The dog, however, was thrilled.

The hope for a conversation was fueled by my latest parenting fear: the lingering thought that I haven’t done enough. This came on the heels of a brief respite during which I accepted a decade of melancholy, watching windows close and hands grow too big to hold. That was apparently over now and often for naught. After all, the teen years have been a pleasant surprise in independence and new levels of bonding. Sure, the kids are somewhat more skeptical now, and my advice is routinely challenged, but that’s OK. They should be skeptical. They should question authority. I’m as full of crap as the next guy.

But now, with two teen boys on the constant verge of yet another milestone, my moment of zen has been bombarded with doubt. Watching them melt into their own devices, usually at the expense of family time, kind of hurts.

My wife and I have talked about it. A lot. We want the boys to do their own thing, to find whatever it is that they enjoy and then enjoy it; but when that thing is being away from us, not doing much of anything, well, that hurts, too.

We give them space. We give them choices and support, ponder options and consequences in their general direction, keep them fed and hold them accountable. So what is the “enough,” or lack thereof, that haunts me? Change is a challenge, be it something we want to see or the downright Kafkaesque.

Welcome to the teen chrysalis. We are pupa-adjacent, and it takes a while.

The butterflies fluttered as they do, floating flowers on cartoon wings against the brilliant blue of the morning sky. They flew independent of one another, together in focus and direction, yet separate through the slipstreams. Between them was space to stretch and grow, traveling companions always on the horizon. None of them seemed particularly interested in my mouth.

“Do you know what they call a group of butterflies?” I asked as we turned around the oak tree.

“No,” he said. “What?”

“A kaleidoscope,” I said.

“That’s a good name,” he replied. I agreed.

We stood in the shade for a moment, watching the park breathe with kids, parents and dogs. The only sound was a swarm of laughter.

The words flew easier with our backs to the wind.

_{Photo: Nathan Dumlao | Unsplash}

When our youngest son turned 13 a couple of weeks ago he was officially engulfed in teen spirit, embracing it wholly, eye rolls and all. Granted, the smell of it had moved in several months before—body spray in a hoodie—and the attitude arrived even earlier.

His birthday completed the set: two teenage boys sharing a bathroom and little else, save their love of pets and parents. They are, for the most part, free to choose their own adventures.

There was a time that I would chronicle all of it—the love and the loss, the raw and the perfectly flawed. I would put their stories to the wind and let the lessons fall where they may.

For over a decade I have maintained this website, the critically acclaimed and financially non-existent Honea Express (Honea sounds like pony, get it?), upon which our lives are spread from putty to brushstroke and back again. However, keen observer(s) may have noticed that I haven’t published here in a while. The truth is, I no longer feel ownership of the tales I tell, and perhaps I never did. The boys deserve their privacy and ample room to make mistakes. Pausing my pen seemed the thing to do. Life in real time has no need for a narrator. There is a difference between characters and children, and my loyalty is to the latter.

All of which brings me to a crossroads. There is no shortage of parenting prose, no lack of ample advice, unsolicited or otherwise, but the overwhelming majority of it is centered on younger children. There is very little in the way of teen drama this side of The CW. Yet, the fact is that parents of teenagers probably need pings of reassurance more than anyone.

And while some publications do address parenting and teens, it still feels like a large hole in need of filling. Real stories of family life with teenagers tend to be purposely vague, broad and academic, dry bread with the crusts cut off.

I suspect, much like my own experience, that it isn’t due to a lack of material, but rather a healthy respect for privacy that keeps parents, even those who once ran rampant with personal anecdotes, from divulging too much. After all, our obligations to the internet are inflated and self-imposed, but we owe our offspring everything. Besides, who has the time?

The truth is, raising a teen is hard. Each next thing is the most important one ever. Arguments appear from anywhere and emotions are a blur of hugs and door slams. There is an emoji for everything.

The other truth is, raising a teen is wonderful. Teenagers are becoming clearer versions of themselves, defining their humor and heart, trying on interests and exploring opportunities. It is a dance of trust and worry.

Ours is now a home with two teenagers in it, and their stories are everywhere. The telling of which is always tempting and sometimes possible, but even more importantly, perhaps now is a time best spent listening.

_{Approved photo: Whit Honea}

The conversation started over breakfast, a thread to a tangent passed with pepper and more coffee. It stuck like syrup in a mustache.

Eventually, it moved from a stranger-coveted table in an increasingly busy restaurant to another prolonged standstill in the parking lot. Two family members danced a tango of societal and political opinion while everyone else kicked leaves and waited for car doors to open.

Then it continued in the front seat for another 20 minutes. I sat in the back with a 5-year-old on my right. His toy made a loud, electronic shriek, apparently forever, and it was always within an inch of my face. Frankly, I was happy to have it, never pushing it away for the entire ride. It kept the conversation at bay.

Perhaps it seems odd that I wasn’t involved in the debate. After all, my thoughts on politics and society are published everywhere (including this site), often. I’m not known for staying quiet.

I was, figuratively, biting my tongue.

This past Christmas I had lost my cool—justifiably so, but it was still rather embarrassing—in a similar conversation. I had yelled, cursed, turned shades of the season and frothed with spittle. It was an outburst that had been building for over a year. Disgust, fear, anger and tension—I suddenly unleashed it in the face of someone who didn’t deserve it, at least not in the form I presented it. I vowed I would not repeat myself, despite everything being 12 months worse than anyone could ever want to imagine.

So I sat in the backseat, letting a child pierce my ears with laser screams. His face was full of soundless laughter.

Every so often I would catch a word or two from the front. The argument seemed to center on whether most people in the world (but, specifically, in the United States) are good. One swore that was the case. One was not convinced. They both had their reasons.

For context, the participants in this particular conversation fell on different sides of several aisles, including (but not limited to) politics, age, religion, education, race and tax bracket. In most cases, I tended to agree with one of them more than the other. It’s not a secret.

My 12-year-old son summed it up best as we all loitered in the parking lot: “I don’t know what they’re arguing about, but I know who is right.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Yet, the current conversation, the matter of innate goodness, was something of an outlier.

One argued that most people are good, something I want to believe (and often do, based upon the majority of those I have met). The point, however, was tinted in shades of rose, the hue of making great again that which was only a matter of privilege and perspective.

The case against was full of headlines and the burning world around us. I only needed to look out the window, the ground black and smoldering in the aftermath of recent, literal fires, to find agreement there.

And I did, beyond the face of a laughing boy, and deep into the valley of burnt homes, the bones of buildings and the ghosts already haunting them, stretched every stitch of answer.

Most people are good. At least, they believe themselves to be.

But what does “good” even mean?

What is considered good by one person may not qualify for another. One act, intended and believed as wholehearted goodness, may be perceived as wrong, hurtful or offensive by others. Good, like most things, is relative.

For my part, I try to teach my kids to spread kindness, social awareness, empathy and action, all of which I believe to be at the core of good. Yet, I am constantly mocked and threatened for it. I am quite sure those people casting judgment upon me don’t believe themselves wrong. Far from it. They think of themselves as the good guys.

We got to the beach, as we always do, the ground of ash finally giving way to swaths of sand, mere feet from the ocean’s edge. The toy’s digital echo buried beneath a cry of seagulls and the pop of waves breaking into cold, wet blankets.

My boys appeared from the other half of our caravan, barefoot and pants rolled high.

“We’re going to go walk in the water,” they said.

“Good,” I replied.

They knew exactly what I meant.

_{Photo by Whit Honea}

“Come here,” I said. “You need to see this.”

My oldest boy walked toward me, his hands bright and swollen in mismatched oven mitts, one of which complimented the apron.

He knew what it was that he needed to see, or at least the gist of it. I had been calling him to my side of the kitchen island for the better part of an hour, skipping from video to video, Twitter to Facebook and back again.

“Watch this one,” I said.

This one featured a man twisted as a pretzel. He was stale, salty and, apparently, wanting for beer.

My son watched in silence for a moment, the words screaming from the screen loud enough for everyone.

“That guy is an idiot,” he said. “Who keeps calendars from 1982?”

He knew the whole story, having heard it from TV, friends, his parents and the internet.

“Do you see the anger?” I asked. “Do you think that comes from guilt or embarrassment?”

“I think it’s entitlement. It’s like he can’t believe anyone would question him, but nothing he says sounds very honest.”

We talk about it a lot. We talk about the heavy haze of glory days, and how generations built false narratives around masculinity, gender, race and everything in which entitlement was encouraged, openly and often. When you’re a straight, cisgendered, able-bodied white man in America, life is an inside joke, whether you get it or not. Some punchlines are more taut than others.

At the end of the day, we all owe someone something, be it money, helping hand or apology.

Recently, I wrote about my anxiety in a piece for The Washington Post, which may make this one seem redundant or opportunistic, the furthering of a personal brand built upon the trending of a hashtag: #mentalhealth, and all the obvious, endless success that it implies.

To point, a friend of mine believes men speaking about mental health, specifically celebrities sharing their own stories while promoting upcoming films and the next big game, is nothing more than a calculated PR move meant to garner goodwill. Frankly, I find the suggestion off-putting.

There are few personal positives for anyone while publicly outing their struggles with anxiety or depression. Saying a thing aloud does not make it less so. It does not make it go away. If anything, it only serves to mark their rain cloud all the darker, coloring them in contrast, shadows against the sunlight of a Stepford society.

Perhaps this is why the suggestion of staged PR rubs me as wrong, for sharing one’s story of struggle is not a selfish act, it is a selfless one, regardless of timing or platform.

The individual benefits gained from speaking about mental health are negligible, but the impact it has upon the audience is immeasurable.

Boys who are taught that men can’t discuss their feelings and personal issues grow into men who believe they can’t discuss their feelings and personal issues. Rinse. Repeat.

It is bigger than that, of course. There are books and studies and lecture halls, all overflowing with fact, experience and opinion, the what and why of men’s mental health and our relationship(s) with it.

Additionally, there is the added element of fatherhood and the context within which we frame conversations about mental health when speaking with our children. Are we discussing an example or are we living one? How do we separate assumptions of difference from perceptions of weakness? How do we offer assurance while also needing it? What is said aloud, and what is left to discover?

These are the layers built upon the issue itself, a perfect parfait of panic attacks and parenthood. The sweet embrace between moments that are too often less so.

I don’t know that I can stress enough how far from perfect I am. I am deeply flawed, filled with regret and anger of my own. My boys know this, because I wear my faults honestly, scars and tattoos, my skin a spotted stretch of timeline.

I can only hope they recognize the contrast that I offer, an appreciation of love and lessons, fluid and evolving. Masculinity is messy and moving, and in my case highly melancholy. It is stitched from insecurity and justice, love and responsibility, failure and forgiveness. It is many things, but it should never have been what happened in that hearing.

“Are the cookies ready?” asked my youngest son, bouncing into the kitchen with a tablet in one hand and a book in the other, the dog fast upon his heel.

“They’re cooling,” said his brother. “Come here, you need to see this.”

_{Photo: Mark Mühlberger | Unsplash}

The distance between them is a mix of years and meters, measures in degrees of space and sound and time. Two boys joined at the bloodline, bound by fate and floor plans, my sons have shared a bedroom from the beginning, their bunked barracks always a common ground. That changed last week.

For the first time ever, the boys are each in their own room. They believe they have gained freedom and independence, which is true. But I cannot help fear a paradise lost in nightly confidants and the whispers between them. Also, a place for potential guests should any care to visit.

This change in the dynamic of our family feels compounded by another shift, the thinning of a friendship. One of the boys is facing changes at school and we feel the effects at home, relationships being connected as they are.

Granted, friendships are fluid. Even the best can grow stretched or frayed, only held together by past adventures and Facebook. Relationships exist in a state of flux.

Over the years, our boys have bounced in and out of social circles, playdates to sleepovers to group chats always pinging. However, the Venn diagram between them has stayed a steady waxing, rarely casting out into the waning.

But it is happening now. A friend that was is a friend no more, despite my wife and I pleading to the contrary. Our case built against mob mentality, suspecting the other child a victim of it.

Or perhaps it is the other way around. We only know one version of one side, pulled reluctantly through sighs and deep, deep eye-rolls.

It could be this is the way life is supposed to work, bonds breaking as they strain across calendars not yet tethered by the archives of social media. All parties free to expand and explore despite the confines of relative history, now replaced with new paths and nods in the lunchroom. After all, it’s their life, no matter how much we like the other parents.

Therein lies the lesson. What happens in the world gets practice in the home, and while temptation waits around every corner to apply our experience to their discovery, nobody benefits when we do the work for them. Some problems solve themselves, regardless of the making.

At home, our boys didn’t lose any sleep once the new arrangement was decided, dividing bedding and decor in the most amicable split ever. Neither, it seemed, cared as much for the stuff they shared as for the room they needed. All they wanted was privacy and possibility. All they wanted was freedom to expand and explore with the comfort of relatives and history sleeping softly in the room next door.

There are diagrams here, too: sibling dynamics, rivalries and overlaps of everything. Yet since the move the boys have played together more than they did in the countless months that preceded it. Perhaps it is the optics of option, spending time together by choice rather than sentence. Perhaps it is the comfort of commonality.

The distance between them is a mix of years and meters, but it is closer where it matters.

_{Photo: Whit Honea}

“Tuesday,” I repeated, my voice rising quickly on the last syllable, a vocal jump toward the edge of inquiry. “Did you say Tuesday?” I asked, now fully committed to the line of questioning.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you at 7.”

I put it on my calendar. I checked again to make sure the day was right. Then I started wondering what Wednesday would be like. Would I find the strength to carry on?

Honestly, I don’t know why the idea of grabbing a beer with a friend on a Tuesday night registered the way it did. I’ve done social things on plenty of Tuesdays. And there’s a fairly good chance I’ve had a beer or two on any given weeknight over the past 20 years—granted less so as time moves on—but it’s hardly a shock. Tuesday is just another day, not quite the hump and 24 hours better than Monday.

But, whereas a lifetime ago I would have seized the alliteration of Two-for-Tuesday specials like I was investing in pork bellies (I wasn’t a vegetarian then), I am now content dedicating the day to tacos and television.

Perhaps it is because school is back in session, and with it all the early morning responsibilities that summer had delayed by an hour or two. I have to get up early. I’m working at least 12 hours per day. My wife is working long hours an hour away. There is homework. There are chores. By the time we eat dinner it’s pushing 8 p.m., then dessert if we’re lucky. Then, I decide if I’m going to continue working until well after midnight or try to go to bed and wake up before the sun. I usually do both, staying up too late and waking up too early. There are deadlines, meetings and all the trappings of lower middle-class success.

I guess I was too tired to go out on a Tuesday, or rather, the idea of it made me too tired. There would be walking to the barstool, and then sitting on it, and looking at a menu of fried foods and microwaved munchies. And the bar in question insists on serving everything in an ice-covered chalice, so that’s a pain in the ass to lift. Oh, the whole thing is such an ordeal. Plus, I’d have to leave the kids alone for a couple of hours. And yet, I really wanted to see my friend.

Tuesday, man. Tuesday.

Then it arrived.

I woke up worried. There was a long list of things to be done, which, granted, were the same things that need to be done most days, but now — there was pressure! I was on the clock. Meetings. Deadlines. Dishes. Then I needed to make sure homework, chores and dinner were all completed an hour earlier than usual. I took a shower in the middle of the afternoon.

I was going out for a beer at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday.

About 6 o’clock the phone rang.

“Hey, man. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m beat. Any chance we can do this a different day?”

“How’s next Wednesday?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you at 7.”

I put it on my calendar.

_{Photo: Lance Anderson | Unsplash}

I met a friend for coffee the other day. It’s something we try to do on a regular basis, which, apparently, means once every eight months.

Our schedules have proven difficult to align, despite our living two miles apart, having kids at the same school, and working in similar creative fields. It takes half a year and two dozen texts to create 90 minutes of quality time at Starbucks, 15 of which are spent standing in line. This is the sum of our parts, a modern life defined by new math and the old habits we cannot help but cling to.

This is a pattern in my life when it comes to friendships, and I’m not sure how I got here. That is, I have great friends around the globe and corner, but I don’t spend nearly enough time with any of them. Granted, my own anxiety and the comforts of home tend to keep me in more than my younger self could ever have imagined, but I’m still social, awkwardly so, and often want for company.

Work is at least 60 hours per week, filled with meetings and deadlines, edits and interviews. My wife works even more, with her schedule scattered across both sides of the wee hours, the coming and the going. The boys have extracurricular activities, and when they don’t there is homework, friends and binging The Office again. Also, the daily reality that they no longer want to spend quality time with me, despite a good decade begging for my attention.

Everyone I know has something similar. We are all trying to juggle the commitments of work, family obligations and the things we want to do, plus assorted health concerns, financial considerations and the respective battles that each of us is fighting. All things considered, meeting for coffee once every eight months seems fairly reasonable.

So how is it, with a life busy between work, family, volunteering and six streaming services, do I still find myself with regular bouts of downtime? I do enjoy time by myself, but even I can have enough of me. I could fill that time by lifting some weights or picking up the phone, but I despise both of those things, regardless of the benefits they may carry.

What I want is an unexpected knock at the door and a smile through the peephole, a random text to grab a beer on a Tuesday or my kids to help in the kitchen because they enjoy the company.

In jukebox terms, I’ve spent 16 years whistling Cat’s in the Cradle, only to have Piano Man sneak up behind me.

The fact is, I’m often lonely, and I know I’m not alone. Plenty has been written about the importance of continued camaraderie and adult friendships as we age, and while I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have the relationships I do, I can’t help but wonder if we’d all be better served by putting a larger focus on them.

Perhaps that requires a bit more flexibility or accepting that there is a difference between inviting and imposing. Maybe instead of waiting for a moment, I just need to make one.

After all, it’s hard to expand your comfort zone if you never attempt to leave it.

We should grab a coffee sometime.

_{Photo: Whit Honea}