A quarter of a century ago I graduated high school. It was in the late eighties.
Twenty-five years later this past Saturday the phone rang. It was Patsy.
Girl, I know you're going to the high school reunion.
I told you I would. When is it?
Today. It started at twelve.
I check the clock on the wall. Patsy. It's twelve fifteen.
I'm on my way. You better go. You told me you would.
Thanks for the notice.
Oh. You're not going.
I'm supposed to be going to Meridian to buy a father's day gift and grocery shop.
That's what I figured.
Where is it? Dammit.
What I will say is that when I moved back to town I asked around about Patsy. Patsy who I played basketball with, who was smart and hilarious and who I had often wondered where in the world did she go. And she was here with her masters in social work and a good husband and a teenage son. Suddenly here I am back in a community with an old friend.
The reunion? It was great.
Today I am grateful to be a part of the class of eighty-eight.