In Our Fold
Not long ago, while steering my car home after a lunch with three women friends from childhood, I replayed in my mind the many highlights of the day. How fortunate I felt to have these “peeps” in my life, others who knew me in ways that few did or could. More than a decade ago we had begun a biannual tradition: spring and fall—and we’d never missed a single one—until the arrival of COVID, which made this particular gathering celebrating fifty-six years of friendship all the more special. Who else would remember what a risk-taker I was, I mused, as I tootled down the winding road. Or understand my complicated feelings about the stultifying community in which we were raised?
Later that evening, while making my night rounds before bed, I thought again about our afternoon together. Now, however, my mood, which had been so dominated by good feeling, was more subdued and pensive. As I reached to switch off a light, a voice in my mind—one that I recognized as my mother’s—whispered: Where did all the time go? I moved to the deck that spread across our backyard instead of going to bed, just to think about this question. There, I settled into a lounger and opened myself up to memories of Mom.
Before her death at age ninety-four, she—like many of her contemporaries—spent a fair amount of time gazing into her life’s rearview mirror. Sadly, however, what she usually described seeing was a landscape of loneliness and missed opportunities. A friend? Not a one. Where did all the time go? she’d say often, with a slow shake of her head. In the sound of her regret, I detected a kind of wonderment, too, as if she couldn’t quite believe there wasn’t still an opportunity to claim what she’d silently longed for. Despite the fact that she had no social life, my mother would have described that kind of opportunity as people-to-see-places-to-go. Adventure! Ever the psychologist, I, on the other hand, interpreted her choice of adventure as a way of experiencing the world in an emotionally safe manner.
Fortunately, by the time Mom began raising this question about the passage of time in earnest, I was well past feeling as if I were, or were not, responsible for her happiness. That sense of responsibility had been a weight I’d carried from childhood far into adulthood. I’d at last made peace with my anger about having had a mother who did not understand or take pleasure in her daughter’s need to carve out a life of her own. Mine was one that, unlike my mother’s, included relationships beyond family. However, as her caregiver through those last years of her life, I was grateful to have been able to listen to her laments with compassion and good humor.
But on this evening, as I took in the warm spring air, the fact that my mother had never experienced the joy provided by the friendships of sisterhood, like the ones I experienced with my gal-pals, elicited in me a deep sadness and even perhaps wistfulness. My get-togethers with them always included discussions about our Moms—especially as they aged or passed on. What I hadn’t anticipated this night, however, was the tender ache that also pressed on my heart.
How I wished that there had been more light in my mother’s days. I wished that she had known the pleasure of sitting with caring, capable women on a warm spring afternoon to share her sharp wit, her love of music, and her sometimes wild opinions.
Early this morning, during a chatty long-distance call with my daughter, Mom came to my mind again. My conversation with my girl took an impromptu turn to the topic of women friends, and more specifically, her desire to cultivate more of them in her male-dominated work and social sphere. Her tone was tinged with frustration. I reassured her that she would find a way to connect with other female millennials and reminded her that quality superseded quantity in the matter of friendships. I’m looking for a sense of community, she persisted. Why don’t people here in California appreciate what it means to be part of a fold?
My grin grew as I considered my own friendship journey over more than fifty years. You’ve got time, baby girl, I offered to her again. You have the same wish your grandmother did but was unable to experience—for adventure. You also have your Mama’s instinct—for the connections that will sustain you..
After ending the call, I paused and suddenly began to reflect on my own “girlfriend” future. Although content to believe the day was still far away, I knew that, like my mother—and so many others who achieve longevity—I, too, would be assessing my life through a rear view mirror like Mom’s at some not too distant time. Likely, my social world would be smaller by then, but I expected that my query about vanishing time would once again be alive in the room. With luck, it might be raised around a table filled with still-feisty women.
For myself, I imagined responding with an I don’t have a clue about where the time went, yet feeling, that, as a sorority, we’d packed in a lot. I’d remind my pals that whatever else did or did not happen in our lives, we’d had friendships with one another that were enriching and stimulating—as comfortable as a pair of worn penny loafers. I envisioned toasting all the girls in our fold, certain that we had managed our time well, and happily.
Happy Reading!
Best,
