Over Quiche and Pork Roast

It was a pleasant Monday evening in May. The sun was still out when we all made our way to Anna’s new home up on a hill. She welcomed us at the door and led us into her kitchen. The aroma of her roast and the warmth of the oven filled the room.

Over some wine, crackers, and dips, we chatted about our families and our children. Then one by one, the others trickled in.

We were six women, bound together by a convent school in the seventies, where nuns wore aubergine habits and neat cream-colored soft veils. We all saw one another grow up, perform, mess up, excel, blossom. More than anything, we all blossomed to young women who would travel the world and find our own niches.

As I watch my dear friends across from and beside me, it dawned on me that I have good-looking friends. In each of them, I could see the little girl in uniform, agile and carefree. There is Anna, always beautiful and whose girls are growing into such stunners. Jimjam, who laments the recent slowing of her metabolism but continues to be her poised polished self. There is Cynthia, always so caring and thoughtful and sweet, and Buncy, whose life in the city seems like a daily adventure. And then there is Tinay, who has always enlivened conversations. I have always remembered her pragmatic approach, her poker face while she cracked jokes. Priceless!

We talked of our other friends—those who are sick, those who have left us, those that we admire, and those that irritate the hell out of us. And through this all, we speak fondly of them, even the annoying ones. Anna commented that it must be unique to our high school batch to be so forgiving, so patient, always making allowances for one another’s shortcomings. Must be so.

And all through the evening, I think to myself, I am so lucky for the opportunity to remember the past fondly, to recollect events with trusted friends, to carry these new experiences home and remember them long after they have passed. That is why I write, so I will remember even more.

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