Not a recap.
Just a way to remember the feeling—and the friends who made it.
Four childhood friends, with over five decades of history between us, spread across different cities and lives, pressed pause long enough to meet in Charleston. What we found was more than a reunion—something we all felt drawn to, even if none of us had the exact words for why. Quiet, lasting, and exactly what we needed.
They say history repeats itself. And this weekend, it did—déjà vu, only with LED lighting and smarter phones. Maybe it was the scotch talking, but somewhere inside my nostalgic skull, a no-frills projector kicked on, whirring into the dark and casting endless 8mm reels from the 1970s. The kind packed with ordinary moments we were convinced were meaningful—defining, even. Sun-drenched and slightly faded frames—grade school faces gradually morphing into those early versions of ourselves—played on a loop, like a low-budget coming-of-age film we somehow never stopped filming.
There we were—three lifelong girlfriends and their loyal gay best friend, decades in the making. Four-of-a-kind, still playing to win. We zipped out of our nearly-Medicare lives like the Jetsons and touched down in the Carolinas—Charleston, to be exact. Soulful, story-soaked, and just the right place to stir up a little past with the present.
There’s no greater joy than sharing the moment with a lifelong friend—someone who gets all of you, celebrates your highs, and meets you in the lows with an open heart. Those old moments of poor judgment or youthful cluelessness—the ones that still make us cringe a little—are no longer weighted with embarrassment. They’re just rites of passage now, folded into the story without a hint of judgment.
This time, though, we were co-directing the sequel. Critics be damned—it’s already a classic.
Our home base for the weekend was an elevated ranch nestled beneath tall pines, where sunlight filtered through in a gentle dappling of shade and gold—perfect for our little getaway. After a soft rain, the greens came alive—so lush, so electric, it felt like the world had been turned up a notch.
The real magic, though, was the marsh just beyond the house, with its weathered dock and slow-moving waters. It was surreal at times. We weren’t just spectators—we were part of it, like we’d stepped into a painting. The kind of color and motion even Van Gogh could almost capture, if he’d wandered the Lowcountry. But a painting can only take you so far. It can show you the light and color—but not the breeze on your face, the weight of the air after rain, the scent of pine and wet earth, or the way birdsong lands differently when you're still and quiet.
And even an essay like this—no matter how carefully written—can’t fully hold what mattered most: we were there together. That presence, that shared breath and laughter and memory, was the part no painting could ever hold. We weren’t imagining it—we were in it. It’s what peace looks like when it finally catches up to you.
And for that—for the gift of time, presence, and old friends who paused their busy lives to be here—I’m deeply grateful.