What we learn in the middle of the night

I've been waking up around 3AM and rely on the BBC World Service to lull me back to sleep. I was listening to a discussion that featured a Turkish artist when I suddenly thought his voice sounded familiar. In my student days, I auditioned roommates and met a handsome and self-effacing guy who sat on my sofa and said he was a science major at Harvard, a concert-level violinist and had recently finished his first novel. Anyone who can say that and still seem likable is worth knowing. Andre moved in and that Turkish artist - famous now - was one of his closest friends in grad school. Two beautiful boys.

I moved to New York and lost touch with Andre, but saw him once years later, when I returned to the West Coast. He was kind enough to invite me to a party. I dread parties because I'm shy and am always sure I won't know anyone there, but I remember the strings of lights and good conversation. I didn't see him after that. I didn't think I was as interesting as the rest of his friends so I didn't call, but I thought about him every once in a while, like tonight.

I typed his name into the Google search box and learned that he died almost two years ago.

He was wonderful and I missed knowing him. Why didn't I keep in touch? Why haven't I kept in touch with so many people? I think it has something to do with my wandering childhood. My father's job was such that we never spent more than a year or so in a place before moving again. Just enough time to start to make friends and then lose them.

When my mother lay dying, she said to me, "You don't cling." It was a complement. I think that I never learned the art of holding on - or was too afraid that if I did, the other person would let go.