She slid her arm through mine and I patted her hand as we strolled home through the uneven cobblestone streets. She talked about the architecture, one of her favorite topics, about how she loved the brick buildings that were in an eternal lover’s embrace. I watched the Spanish moss sway in the moonlight and breathed her in, went home.
It had been close to two years since I had received one of Meredith’s encompassing, healing hugs or sat beside her, my head resting on her shoulder. I crave her like a hot cup of coffee on a cold winter’s day.
Meredith, whom I met in Mrs. Cure’s first grade class, and I had met up in Savannah, the halfway point between Charlotte and Orlando, once before, 19 years ago. The morning that I was leaving to meet her I was putting make up on and that is when I noticed the faint, criss-crossing lines under my eyes. For just a beat, I stared down time and acknowledged that I was in a fight that I couldn’t win.
That night when we misjudged a bar and found ourselves surrounded by Sperry-sporting frat boys and young women whom had not yet mastered the art of walking in heels, Meredith said, “We’re so old.” I said, “I like it. Let’s go home and get in our pajamas.”
The last time we had been in Savannah, we were in our early twenties and we partied like we had just made the cover of Rolling Stone. We were bubbling with the infinite lives that stretched out before us.
In the almost two decades since we were in the city where the magnolias unabashedly flirt with you as you pass them by, Meredith and I didn’t know of the children that we would gain and how they would make our hearts grow and our smiles widen. Nor did we know of the parents and siblings and friends that we would lose that would make our hearts shatter and our knees buckle. We didn’t know how we would struggle with accepting and loving ourselves for who we are and not for who people expect us to be.
We had to figure out a friendship that went from us sleeping eight feet from each other to us living eight hours from each other. There have been time when soccer games and work commitments have gotten in our way and there was even one short sad, dark period where after a mascara-streaked argument we didn’t talk for a while.
From the day we met, Meredith, the preppy daughter of the mayor, and I, the tomboy granddaughter of the town bookie, didn’t seem like we should work. On the surface, we are very different in many ways. However, our hearts took control of the situation and your heart doesn’t give a damn about the surface, about what oughta work.
During our latest weekend in Savannah, we had fun. Memorable fun. We told oft-repeated stories and collected new inside jokes. We generously tipped the cover band because as Meredith said, “Give them some money, Sosh. They’re probably struggling college students”. We drank Bloody Mary’s and cheap beers and ate a month’s worth of southern-fried calories. We texted with our kids and sipped coffee on the terrace of our Air BnB.
I am the first to admit that I am terrified of my mortality. Those lines across my face jolted me and I thought about them more than I like to admit. It’s just that I love being here on this illuminating, upside down, messy, breathtakingly beautiful planet.
I love being here with the people who give me a rock solid foundation while simultaneously being my softest place to land. I love being here with a warm buzz and moon lit walk home with the one who fills me up and smooths me out. I love being here and knowing how to walk in heels and that bars with worn, slanted floors are not where you wear them. I love being here and going to sleep beside a man I’ve grown up with and grown to love more and more every day. I love being here where a person who makes me belly laugh daily calls me mom. I love being here and having the freedom that comes with being ok with me.
To some, we’re so old. To others, we are still kids.
I love being here. Being with her. And, being happy being both.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
