A Conversation Before Leaving
by R.E. Slater
“We are not the same person we were yesterday,
nor will we be tomorrow.”
- Heraclitus
I
His friends from university were scholars and were gathering together that afternoon because he was leaving. Not retiring. Leaving.
As they arrived by ones and twos, no one could quite explain why the gathering felt heavier than a simple retirement, or a prolonged sabbatical, or like one of those quiet academic disappearances which happen each year.
People just leave. College offices get reassigned. New names are hung outside. Academic books remain on their shelves like fossils of remembrance.
Still, this felt different.
Inside the small cabin its owner, John, a historian by trade, stood near the latticed window, sunlight bending across the wooden floorboards. Packing boxes lay scattered around the room - some, were far too light, as if their owner had learned not to carry too much, hold too much, or burden himself with unnecessary things.
“You could at least tell us where you’re going,” said Sandy, John's girlfriend, half-smiling.
“I could,” John replied from across the room, “but it wouldn’t help,” in slight foreshadowing.
Light laughter followed among his gathering friends. More sympathetic than amused... yet something in the room had begun to shift.
It felt like a liminal interior light that wanted switching on, but at that moment, couldn't. And then, there followed a small suggestion. Half wise-ass, half-serious. Starting as a joke....
II
“What if,” said John, turning thoughtfully from the window, “a man never aged?”
A few stray chuckles echoed through the empty cabin walls.
“Is this a thought experiment?” asked Dan, a field anthropologist.
“If you like.”
“Then how long are we talking?” Harry leaned solemnly forward preparing for debate.
John paused, not theatrically, but as if choosing the smallest of honest answers.
“Say, fourteen thousand years.”
Silence did not fall. It filled the room, breathlessly. A perfect beginning... and the first of several small fractures beginning to form its final reunion.
III
“No,” Responded Dan, immediately to the statement. “This is biologically impossible.”
“Of course,” John nodded. “That’s always the first response.”
“Is there a second?” Sandy asked.
John smiled, faintly, but tenderly.
“Sometimes.”
His friends circled him now - not physically, but intellectually. They took the bait. Their questions sharpened. Old professions rose up donning old armor. Amongst the ground was an anthropologist, a biologist, a Christian theologian, a psychologist, a historian, an archaeologist.
Each voice tried to stabilize the moment as it hungered for hypothetical sparing.
“You’re asking us to suspend everything we know,” asked Dan.
“I’m asking you to imagine it,” John said. “Not to believe it.”
“Why?” Edith asked, settling within, a bit quieter than the rest.
John looked at her differently. Seemingly peering into her being.
“To see what changes.”
IV
“Say it’s true!” Harry finally spoke up. “Then what are you?”
John shrugged.
“A person who kept going. Kept living.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s the only one that makes sense.”
John spoke next, not in grand declarations, but in fragments:
“Say, I experienced a winter that lasted too long. Spoke a language no one remembers. Remembered a child who died before there were names for grief?”
Catching his breath, having stopped a moment in reflection, he continued, “I stopped keeping count after a while. Not the years, but the people who came into, and out of, my life.”
This confused his well-wishers...
“Wait! You’re saying you became different people?”
“No,” John replied. “I’m saying I couldn’t stay the same one,” as the weight of memory was adding up again.
V
Sensing John's internal burden, but not quite sure if he was up to his old parlor games of “What if?” Edith then asked, “What happens when you remember too much?”
John didn’t answer right away. He let it sink into the fellowship's psyche. Let it build. Turn. Begin to grown.
“You forget differently,” he said.
“How then does that make sense?”
“You don’t lose things... they just stop being close.”
The room grew still. Somber. Rethinking their responses - and surprisingly, feeling more emotionally drawn in then on other occassions.
“We think memory keeps us going,” John continued. “But it doesn’t. It changes us. It rearranges what matters in life.”
Sandy quickly remarked, “And you’re not tired? You're not weary?”
John looked at her, even more tenderly than before. He stepped backed and really examined his loving friend.
“I don’t think tired is the right word.”
“Then what is?”
He searched for it. “Full, I think. Stuffed. Like I've ingested too much. Seen too much. Felt too much.” he reflectively said.
VI
At which point the proverbial pot began to come to a breaking point, as they would say.
“Ok, out with it!” Dan snapped. “You’re lying!”
“Probably,” John deferred.
“Or you're delusional!”
“Also quite possible,” continuing to play a game that was becoming all too real.
“Then why continue this charade?”
John tilted his head towards his friends.
“Because you haven’t stopped listening. You're all too willing to play this game with me.”
That landed harder amongst his skeptical friends than anything John had yet offered.
VII
At this point, there arose a story within a story. One with many outcomes, hot feelings, personal outbreaks.
“Have you ever influenced history?” asked Sandy, the resident archaeologist, almost mockingly.
John hesitated, mulling his response.
“Not in the way you mean.”
“Try us.”
He slowly exhaled, not for the first time wishing to bear his soul.
“There was a time,” he added slowly, “when I shared what I had learned - about kindness, mostly. About letting go of vengeance.”
“Go on.”
“I moved on before my words could spread,” he said. “But I heard stories later. They grew.”
Around the room Edith’s voice began to tremble.
“What... are you saying…??”
“I’m saying, stories change when people need them to.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“But it’s the only one I trust,” as John kindly reflected.
VIII
The sun had shifted. The room no longer held the same light. But Edith's turbulent response still lay heavily in the air.
No one had proven anything. No one had disproven anything. And yet, a new gravity was forming.
Everything felt altered.
Sandy then spoke, almost reluctantly:
“John, if none of this is true… then why does it matter?”
John picked up one of his moving boxes.
“Because you are all still asking the question. You're wondering if behind my words there is a new meaning unfelt in our previous relationships.”
“That’s not enough!” Cried Art, with the authority of a reasoned academic.
“Yes, I think it might be,” came John's half-turned reply as he carried out a small box to his awaiting pickup outside.
IX
Pausing, at the door, John asked, “But why should we care?”
Not for effect, but as if recognizing something in their intimacy was something he had seen before.
“You don’t need fourteen thousand years,” he said.
No one moved.
“You’re already changing,” he continued. “Every conversation, every loss, every moment you decide to stay or leave —”
He gestured gently around the room holding his package.
“—this is how it happens.”
“Becoming,” Edith whispered.
John nodded.
“Yes. Becoming.”
X
John then left for the cabin's graveled driveway.
No resolution followed. No consensus had formed.
But something remained - not agreement, but tension - the possibility that identity is never quite fixed.
The rising awareness that memory continually reshapes us.
The suspicion that meaning is made, not given. Not inherited. But experienced over time.
And beneath it all - a quieter question formed - one no one would say aloud:
“If we are already becoming… why aren’t we paying attention? Perhaps learning to hold loosely the unnecessary things so that we might draw closer to the things that mattered?”
- R.E. Slater
“We imagine life as something we possess,
yet life is something we always possess as becoming.”
- R.E. Slater
“Some conversations never end when the speaker in our head leaves -
they remain with us, quietly reshaping what we thought we knew.”
- R.E. Slater
“We rarely notice how much we are changing
until someone asks a question we cannot easily dismiss.”
- R.E. Slater