The Re-Narration

The arrival of a new presence in a life does not simply draw attention away from the older friend; it requires a re-telling of the story itself. Overtly neglecting the old alone is not enough to secure permanence — a narrative must follow. A specific plot must be woven, one that elevates the newcomer as more precious, more indispensable, while quietly recasting the older companion as an unnecessary burden, especially in the eyes of the newcomer who may have no knowledge of the authentic narrative or the narrative from the point of view of the one being replaced. The re-narration is not always done with malice; it is done because human bonds demand coherence (Ricœur, 1991). To integrate the new, the old must be written differently, the script altered so that what was once essential now appears excessive. And yet, there are tell-tale signs that linger. The kindnesses once performed by the older friend — the simple task of reading through a document, the late-night phone call during a crisis, the wordless presence during an anxious moments of a hurried trip to the hospital — cannot be erased entirely. These gestures surface again, almost mechanically, because they are the rituals by which intimacy is sustained. But now they are eagerly solicited from the new one. The task is re-cast as if it had never been done before, and the new actor is convinced of their originality. What is hidden from them is the lineage of these acts: that they once belonged to someone else, that they once stitched together a long history of companionship (Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 350 BCE/2009). The objects of care, too, become problematic reminders — an empty bottle of wine, a perfume picked up at a duty free store, the coffee mug left behind after years of routine visits. Each item is like an archaeological remain, buried evidence of an earlier civilization that still whispers its truths if one is willing to excavate. They stand as stubborn counter-narratives, material witnesses that contradict the story being newly constructed. To sustain the fiction, these artifacts must be neutralized. Some are hidden away in drawers, smuggled out of sight like contraband memories too dangerous to be displayed. Others are re-narrated with a sleight of hand: the scarf becomes a meaningless scrap of cloth, the mug a generic trinket, the book a casual token stripped of its careful inscription. What once bore the weight of affection is now recast as accident, clutter, detritus, debris. The strategy is simple but relentless — rob the object, and the person, of history so the newcomer can remain unchallenged at the center. To allow the objects to speak their truth would be to admit that the story of intimacy did not begin with the present, and that admission would fracture the delicate illusion (Bauman, 2000). The old friend is not denied, but their role is rewritten. Years of constancy are narrated as phase, as accident, as habit rather than care. The delicate balance is in acknowledging that the past existed, while stripping it of weight, re-describing it as something that need not matter any longer. This balance is necessary, for the newcomer must be persuaded not only of their present importance but of their superiority, of their unquestionable right to occupy the center. The charade thrives in this careful choreography — acknowledge just enough of the past to avoid suspicion, while steadily diminishing its meaning (Goffman, 1959). But the truth of such a charade is always precarious, for stories leak. The moment of rupture comes when the old friend finally learns not only that they have been replaced, but that they have been re-narrated. It is one thing to be left aside; it is quite another to discover that one’s years of devotion have been rewritten as burden, as obstacle, as excess. That knowledge severs more deeply than silence ever could. The drift, once merely implicit, becomes explicit. The friendship is not lost when communication ends; it is lost when the older friend realizes the story being told about them, and in that moment understands that their history has been erased in order to secure another’s permanence. In the end the one displaced can always find peace in the Mary Hopkins song and the words, “Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.” Because once upon a time there was a tavern.