Rachel E. Watson

At this time last year, my friends and I were gathering excitedly in the Stelma kitchen, writing birthday poems for Katie and decorating the screen porch as we waited to jump out and surprise her. This was the look on her face:


Fast-forward to last night: Same scenario, different setting. (This time, Emma and Lauren blindfolded her and walked her to Salvatore's, where we all were waiting.) I can't believe she was surprised. Again. Unless she was faking... which seems a little unlikely, given this evidence:


But the opportunity to share in birthday joy with her, two years in a row, is the main point I'm writing. I remember when I was wrapping up my high school years, looking forward to college. I wondered if I'd make those lifelong friends I'd always dreamed of having -- something like what my mom has with her suitemates from nursing school. It's almost 40 years later, and they're still friends.

I've always wanted that. And now, as I reflect on the sunny August birthday party of last night, as I remember the faces of my dear friends, I begin to think we'll be the kind of friends that high-school me was dreaming about.

It's good to be August again.