If I am lucky to live long, I know that for the rest of my days I will hold fast the memory of last night's Girl Club. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen bottles of wine breathing, a French dining room table with stout legs laden with fruit, a candelabra dripping, enough pastry, wine, baguette, brie and red velvet cake for an army and all the women. Oh, the women. We danced on chairs, in the kitchen, beat up the hardwood with obscene high heels, dove in and out of Sula's closet in heavy silks, satins, fringe, leather, bathing suits, polka dots, and our Grandmother's engagement dress, and partook in the beautiful food and in each other until we were blue in the face. For all who came, thank you. For those who missed it, you were missed greatly. I nearly cried when Rabbi and Sula raised glasses and dropped their voices and wove together the most beautiful string of words. Bright eyes standing still in a circle around the most beautiful table. It was so nice I was genuinely embarrassed, it was a pearl necklace of words I will never lose. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
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