I love my girlfriends. I had the chance today to get together with a group of women, about half of whom I’ve not seen in at least 7 years, if not more like 10. Some were sorority sisters, some old friends from college. We laughed like I’ve not laughed in a long time and drank Bellini’s and Mimosa’s. We told stories, both old and new. We relived our glory days and our yesterdays. It was wonderful. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the opportunity to be with so many women with whom I have history.

It’s a funny thing. Having history with people. Sometimes that history can be tainted with heartbreak or guilt, but for me, most of the time it just serves to ground me in my friendship with some amazing people. People who have seen both the best and the worst of me. People that have seen me triumph and fall flat on my face. People that I’ve cheered, and yes, sometimes jeered. But mostly, people that I’ve loved.

That’s probably the thing I miss most about where I live now. Even though I’ve met wonderful people here, and even though I’ve now lived here for 7 years, there isn’t a lot of history to my friendships here. Certainly not like the history I have with one of my oldest and dearest friends T. I’ve known her for 20 years. My history with her is riddled with hope and joy, loss and pain, months and sometimes years of losing touch, lots of laughter and tears, lots of cocktails and red beers and lots and lots of history.

History. It’s such a tangible force for me. Whenever I get to see T, I know automatically, almost reflexively, that I can say and or do anything and not only will she not judge me, but she’ll just get it. When I went to Paris and went to the Louvre, the sculptures and paintings mostly served to ground me in my humanity. Every time I go to the mountains and marvel at the age of the rock beneath my feet, it ties me to the earth. History, with people, with things, makes me real.

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