We first held hands playing ‘Red Rover, Red Rover’ on the playground of our elementary school. Fingers gripped tightly around the other, pinky-swearing we wouldn’t let anyone crash through our threshold. It was our first introduction — a beautiful lesson on how some people immediately feel like they belong to us. When compatibility seems to be verified over juicebox jokes, laughing over failed projects, and the shared joy in riding invisible horses during recess.
Sure, you think your friendship is strong when it lasts through the years, especially past puberty. It survives the brokenheartedness of the first, fifth, or millionth guy. You make it through trials & tribulations by singing over some Britney or Kelly track, dancing until the wee hours of the morning. You symbolise your connection through coordinated outfits. Like flowy floral shirts and shit-kicking cowboy boots that you wear on Friday nights after work, dancing to some 90s country tune while you take shots named after cartoon characters. You preach to one another, a homegrown mantra, ‘We are strong, independent women,’ trekking together in this thing called life.
But you never know how strong your friendship is until life hits you like a mallet. When it’s no longer about missed classes and failed connections. Parents die, siblings rift, and one day you find yourself sitting in a hospital waiting room, bleeding with deep sorrow over the life that will never come to pass. And it's not your now ex-husband holding your hand, but the same hand you connected with at seven. Squeezing your palm in their palm, like they’re speaking to you in Morse code, “You. Are. Not. Alone.”
You have never been alone, nor will you ever be alone again. Not with true friendship, not with those who are a part of your chosen family.