We are the best of friends who, but for the whim of fate, might never have met. I would like to say that we grew up together, but that would only be the truth if we started growing up after our fiftieth birthdays. Maybe one doesn’t grow up until after experiencing the first fifty years of life. If that is the case, then yes, we most definitely have grown up together.

We met through a mutual friend who decided we should all cruise the New England shoreline with our husbands. We never expected that a 10-day cruise would turn into a life-changing event and catalyze an enduring sisterhood under the guise of friendship. After the first day at sea, our friend decided to spend more time with her husband and less time with our group, leaving us to discover each other and our mutual interests.  Gradually, we barely noticed her absence over the next few days as we were preoccupied with finding similar wits and common backgrounds. To an unknowing bystander, we looked like we had been friends forever, finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at the same jokes. When the evening entertainment included the cruise line’s version of The Temptations, we gleefully sang along and managed to include ourselves in a publicity photo — two middle-aged Jewish women excitedly posing with third-rate Motown impersonators. Our husbands had retired to their respective cabins early, but we stayed up late, drinking wine and singing bad karaoke. We couldn’t get enough of this newly developing friendship.

After the cruise ended, we unsuccessfully tried to maintain ties with our mutual friend, who lamented in texts and phone calls that it was us who had excluded her. Maybe we had, but maybe we hadn’t. It’s hard to explain the hands of fate.  Intoxicated with the discovery of a kindred spirit, we embraced our new friendship while at the same time commiserating over the loss of an old one. Several years later, we were on a plane returning home from a weekend trip to New York City, and our former friend walked past us in the aisle, headed to her seat on the same flight. We waited for her to acknowledge us as she approached. While her eyes flickered with what looked like a quick recognition, she continued walking, focusing on moving her oversized wheelie bag through the narrow walkway.  We toyed with the idea of sending champagne to thank her for bringing us together, but instead just smiled while sipping our Bloody Marys and clinking our plastic glasses together as a toast to best friends.

Tracey and I are the epitome of the timeworn phrase that opposites attract. Her closet is jam-packed with linen slacks and silk blouses, double-breasted blazers, and pashmina scarves; and they all look fashionable on her regardless of whether the label is Dior or Target. On the other hand, I prefer basic black leggings and oversized tee shirts for my weekend attire, and elastic-waisted jeans with skinny legs make up a large percentage of my closet’s inventory. Tracey is comfortable in ballet flats and sneakers, while my glittery wedges and four-inch heels help compensate for my height deficit. Despite our physical differences, we love shopping together. Saturday afternoons are frequently an adventure involving a jumble of sizes and styles, with hangers and clothing flying over the dressing room doors. We often spend hours trying on matching ensembles and laughing at each other with no mercy as we point out panty lines and newly found wrinkles and varicose veins. To this day, my closet is full of clothes with price tags still hanging on them – the outfits my best friend convinced me to buy but which somehow didn’t look quite as stylish on me when I brought them home.

Tracey and I arrived in this world two weeks apart at neighboring hospitals, born to mothers heading into labor with the mistaken hope that their newborn girls would bring some semblance of happiness to their failing marriages. Our mothers were headstrong and beautiful women who didn’t always choose the perfect companion but loved their children with the fierceness of a mama bear. We both lost our fathers at an early age through a combination of divorce and just simple bad luck. In our parallel childhoods, we also both had wealthy grandparents living at the same resort-like high-rise in Miami Beach during the years when Frank Sinatra held court at local Italian restaurants and other members of the Rat Pack shopped at my dad’s haberdashery store. Today, the high-rise has been torn down and replaced with an opulent luxury hotel better suited to the South Beach vibe. Young society couples and expatriates from foreign countries have replaced its affluent retirees, and the clothing store is now a local bank branch. Although the scene has changed, it thrilled us to no end to know that before we even met, we had built castles in the same sand, dipped our toes in the same ocean inlet, and devoured White Castle sliders and root beer floats near the beach; just one more example of how destiny had predetermined our friendship.

Tracey’s mother passed away suddenly several years ago. It was unexpected and quite a shock, but true to form, it took place during a mah-jongg game at an exclusive country club on a Wednesday afternoon. Our mothers always handled significant life events with class and aplomb, and death would prove no different. I distinctly remember where I was when I heard the news and the wail of her cries through the telephone. I didn’t know how to console her — our relationship was still on an upward trajectory, and we hadn’t yet shared extreme grief or personal tragedies. I went to the funeral service and stood silently at the graveside. The sky was a dreary gray and heavily laden with clouds while a steady rain soaked the grass beneath our feet. I had only met her mother a few times in the short span of our friendship, but I mourned her, nonetheless, taking on my best friend’s grief as my own.

Over the next several years, Tracey shared humorous and engaging stories about her life with her mom. For her, it was cathartic and a way to honor her mother’s memory, and for me, it was a way to learn more about my best friend and how similar our upbringings had been. Some of the more amusing teachings I learned were that you should never buy a blouse without the coordinating slacks and that if the checkout line was too long at Marshalls, the items in your cart were probably not worth the wait. I also learned that there is no trip anywhere in the world that is not better with your best friend at your side. Tracey and I traveled through Eastern Europe, Spain, and Italy together and rode trains from New York’s Grand Central Station to the rolling hills of the Hudson Valley. Every trip was an adventure and always resulted in a story to share, like when we arrived on the wrong side of the Amtrak tracks and the conductor took pity on us and held the train while we scrambled to the other side, hauling oversized suitcases. We celebrated our children’s graduations and marriages, and both prayed to each other that we would be blessed with grandchildren one day while secretly believing we were still too young to be called any version of Grandma.

And then, just a few years later, my mother too was gone. It wasn’t as unexpected or sudden, but it still sent a shock wave through the core of my being. One day, my mother was getting a manicure and pedicure while entertaining friends at home, and just a few days later, hospice was providing oxygen and morphine to soothe her agitation and pain. Once again, during a gray and rainy morning, Tracey and I were together at yet another graveside. Tracey stood tall among the mourners, her black sweater adorned with a beautiful, jeweled brooch that had belonged to her mother. The tears rose in my throat, but no sound came out. The weight of them was too much, and my voice seemed lost in the silence of my grief. But I managed to run to her with outstretched arms and tightly hugged my friend who knew only too well what I was experiencing. She pointed to her brooch and, at the same time, noticed I was wearing the heavy sterling silver link bracelet that my mother had loved. Earlier in the day, Tracey had told me to find something of  my mom’s to hold on to, and so I did, clutching the heavy links on my wrist as the rabbi spoke of love and loss and the steady rain melded with the teardrops on my face.  And at that moment, as we both wore our mother’s memories, I knew I would be okay.

In Judaism, we are taught to pray each year to be inscribed in the Book of Life. However, in so many ways, we alone bear the responsibility for creating our own book of life. Was it our friend from long ago who brought us together on that cruise ship? Was it the wine and rhythm of the Motown music, or could it be the Saturday shopping sprees that created the bond between us?

If one believes in fate and destiny, or simply that some things in life are meant to be, then this seed was probably planted long ago on the beaches of Miami by two strong and independent women. Women who wanted to ensure that their like-minded daughters had a shoulder to lean on during a time when their arms were no longer able to wrap us in their embrace. Women who wanted their daughters to know that true love never comes neatly wrapped and tied with a bow and that our greatest love comes from our love for ourselves. And now, on those days when life seems overwhelming or family conflicts arise, Tracey and I simply look up to the sky and say, “Thanks, Mom, for bringing us together.”