Sixty years ago, I astonished my parents by moving to Boston. I had graduated from college and didn’t have a job. Most of my friends were either married or teachers (or both). I liked Pittsburgh, but I was looking for some adventure (and a husband). It all worked out—great husband, kids, career.
But nobody knows you like your longtime friends. In the last ten days, a childhood friend I’ve known since I was four visited us from Washington, D.C., the person I shared an office with in my first Boston job flew in from Los Angeles, and I was in touch with three high school classmates who live in Massachusetts.
At eighty-one, the people who knew me “when” are increasingly in my thoughts. I feel a sense of anticipated loss that makes me want to check in with them. The days are going by so much faster now.