I shared an air mattress that night with my friend from Boston, the one who calls me, while rubbernecking in traffic, to catch up on her cell phone, to tell me of her life and love. On the next mattress was a gal from San Francisco, newly single and enjoying her independence. Our host, the artist, shared her bedroom that weekend with a married dot-commer from San Francisco. Yes, we are different, but we are also the same. The years of our youth say so.
The apartment was open and we talked late into the night, our voices carrying back and forth between the rooms as we laughed, cackling about things that would only be humorous to friends with this kind of history. The next morning, I awoke to a brilliant blue sky, beautifully contrasted by the earthy brown of the surrounding adobe. It was Saturday and the art enthusiasts were out, so, with coffee in hand, I dropped off our host at work. I returned to find the others still deep in slumber, deep lines on their faces evidence of a restfulsleep.
We checked out town and headed to the airport to pick up the last straggler, who came in from San Francisco for one night. “I wouldn't have missed this for anything, she said, despite her 4 a.m. trip to the airport. That night we celebrated over margaritas and Southwestern fare, each of us gazing at the faces around the table as we wondered, who would have thought the bonds of childhood could last this long? Some of us have been friends since the age of five, some since age twelve and, yet, here we are approaching the age of thirty. Quite rapidly, I might add.
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