Old friends, they finish your sentences, they remember the cat that ran away when you were twelve, and they tell you the truth w

Old friends, they finish your sentences, they remember the cat that ran away when you were twelve, and they tell you the truth when you’ve had a bad(36)haircut. But mostly, they are always there for you—whether it’s in person or via late night phone calls—through good times and bad times. But as the years pass, it becomes(37)increasingly difficult to see each other and to make new(38)memories. Fortunately, my high school girlfriends and I(39)swore long ago not to let this happen.
    A few months ago, we(40)met up for a three-day weekend in the American Southwest. We grew up together in Maine and have said for years that we should have an(41)annual event, yet it’s often postponed or(42)canceled due to schedule conflicts. Not this year.
    Four of us—two from San Francisco, one from Boston, one from Seattle—(43)boarded planes bound for Santa Fe, the capital of the New Mexico,(44)where one of the gang lives an agreeable life and works for an art gallery. Two years ago, she moved there—escaped, rather—from the film industry in New York City, where she led a life that felt too fast, too unfulfilling.(45)The artist in her longed for lively landscapes and starry moonlit skies. She wanted to drive a truck on dusty roads, a trusty dog at her side, riding shotgun. She got all that. She is happy.
    We were no longer girls longing to be adults, no longer post-college grads. Yes, we are different, but we are also the same. The years of our youth say so.