The Last Supper

I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. I’ve been friends with the same girls since I was five years old. With my study abroad trip to Paris fast approaching, my friends wanted to take me out to a goodbye dinner.

To be perfectly honest, I didn’t really want to go. I was exhausted from a long day at the pool, and I wanted to go home and sleep. But my friends had sweetly planned the whole night, so I slipped on a dress, and brushed out the knots in my hair. I’d hoped that I didn’t smell like chlorine.

There’s only two somewhat nice restaurants in town. My friends had opted for Andolinis, knowing my preference for Italian food. The restaurant was dimly lit, each table only illuminated by a small candle. After exchanging warm hugs, we settled down to look at the menu. I decided on spaghetti and meatballs, with fresh bread.

“Say when,” the waitress instructed, the parmesan falling on my food like a fresh snow.

My friends and the waitress both broke into laughter when they realized that I wasn’t going to say when at any point.

“The more parmesan the better!” I protested, a blush staining my cheeks.

The waitress chortled good-naturedly before making the rounds with my friends dishes.

I twirled a little spaghetti onto my fork, sighing in satisfaction when it reached my mouth.

I had come into this evening dreading it. I think the stress of the study abroad process was getting to me, along with having a long work day. But being with my friends and eating a warm plate of food turned out to be just what I needed. As we chatted about the upcoming year, I reflected on each friend that was sitting at the table. Their goodness and humor are unparalleled, and the bond that we’ve had since we were girls has only grown stronger.

They’re truly ones worth celebrating.