To be a part of a collective memory.
A memory retold so many times, in so many settings, it gains a life of its own.
A memory that often begins with a single phrase:
“Remember that time…”
Each of us with our own bit to add.
Our own part in the story.
Voices jumble over each other, laughter erupts.
**(Share as in the noun “to own en masse”, not the verb “to tell”.)
Earlier today I met up with some of my high school classmates. High school was, much to my surprise, more than 7 years ago. With all the life that has happened in those 7 years it shouldn’t feel like yesterday, but it does. When we sat around having breakfast this morning, it was like stepping back in time.
We’re all grown up. We’ve moved away from Wellington.
We have “real” jobs. There is talk of marriages, and mortgages.
But put us around a table, and we are, for the most part, who we were.
Annie and I have changed the most. Annie outgrew her shell, and I outgrew my prudish nature.
But the boys are the same. They are older, but they are exactly as I remember them.
It’s so nice to have old friends. Friends who can see that you are the same or different.
Friends who remember a you, you used to be. And somehow being remembered justifies the person you are now.
It’s so nice to be considered a friend.
When time, and reality of life after high school gets in the way of maintaining a friendship, it’s so nice to know that sometimes, you don’t need to make an effort to have a friend.
Sometimes you just need to be in the same place, at the same time to realise that you never stopped being friends at all.
What a heart warming, soul healing, mind blowing experience;
Getting together with Old friends.