Back in 1994, the book group I call Book Group A (as opposed to Book Group B, started in 2003) met for the first time. There were ten original members, from a variety of towns, backgrounds, and points of view. One of us lasted one meeting, another, four months. The rest of us have been in it for the long haul, taking turns hosting monthly meetings to discuss books we’d read before the conversation would turn to other things.

The past few years have seen enormous changes. Sara’s marriage ended; Mary Ellen’s was successfully shored up and continues to hold. There was open heart surgery for Joan, and a devastating car accident for Judy. Jo moved to Virginia, Sue to Boston, and just this past summer Sara left for Colorado. With everything going on, the five of us remaining began to consider the possibility that it might be time to let go. We hadn’t even been reading books over the past year; even committing to a book seemed impossible. We felt we’d hit a crossroads, or even a natural endpoint. So the five of us met yesterday with the intention of celebrating seventeen years together, and the nagging thought that perhaps the time had come to bid Book Group farewell.

We went to an Indian restaurant, where we spilt three dishes between the five of us. As it turned out, Mary Ellen had delivered the owner’s daughter 14 years ago, which got us 20% off our bill and free dessert—plus a viewing of a photo of the owner’s daughter. It struck us that she is three years younger than Book Group.

We ate, we talked. We are never at a loss for words or unusual circumstances. We greet the latter with advice, sympathy, support and even, occasionally, criticism (mostly constructive). We have annoyed each other, made each other cry, but thankfully, and way more often, we’ve made each other laugh. Looking around the table at these strong women, Joan, Elaine, Judy, and Mary Ellen, I know that the books and the monthly meeting are just window dressing for an enduring connection.  Books were only the pretext, this kinship is the rest of the story. And when Judy wonders aloud about how we, a book group that doesn’t read, defines ourselves, and where do we go from here, the answer is obvious. We define ourselves as friends, and from here, we go on.