💛 An old post. A younger voice. Left here on purpose.
“True friends are never apart, maybe in distance but never in heart.”
Helen Keller
One of my favorite cinematic moments is the closing scene of Love Actually.
The movie fades to a montage of airport embraces as “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys plays. Friends and family wrapped in hugs, laughter, tears—and somehow it captures everything beautiful about reunion.
I wasn’t expecting my high school reunion to feel like that. There would be no charming soundtrack, no slow-motion montage. But I was still excited to see old friends—to gather again in the place where we grew up, pretending, if only for a weekend, that time hadn’t moved quite so fast.
Shelley and I flew into Brownsville early Friday morning. I was buzzing with nostalgia. It had been six years since I’d last visited, and I’d heard how much the city had changed. Once dusty and small, Brownsville was supposedly transforming into a bustling, cosmopolitan hub—at least, according to those still living there.
And then we landed.
It’s not that I didn’t recognize the place. I did. Just not in the way I wanted to. The city looked tired. Buildings once full of character were now crumbling. Empty lots had turned into strip malls. Litter tumbled through the streets like tumbleweed.
Driving through my old neighborhood hurt the most. The once-proud lawns were overgrown. The houses—once freshly painted and full of life—now faded, sagging under the weight of neglect. When we passed my childhood home, it barely resembled itself. A ghost of the place that raised me.
I felt like a confused George Bailey, wandering through Pottersville, looking for ZuZu’s petals.
At that point, I was ready to get back on the plane.
But hope, as it turns out, wears the face of a beef taco.
Antonio’s—Brownsville’s finest Tex-Mex establishment—was still standing tall. It had been a family favorite, a fixture of my teenage years. Jerry and I must’ve eaten there a hundred times in high school. So, naturally, it became my first stop back in town.
We picked Jerry up and raced toward destiny—or at least dinner. One bite into Antonio’s legendary Fajita Taco Dinner, and suddenly everything was right again. So what if Brownsville now looked like a giant flea market? So what if my childhood home had a chalk outline around it? Sitting there with Shelley and Jerry, laughing, telling stories—it was as if no time had passed at all.
By that night, the full crew had arrived. The cast included Carlos, D.D., Abelardo, Eric, Jerry, and me. Missing were Teno, Ruben, Jorge, and Jacob, but we toasted to them repeatedly, ensuring their spirits were well represented. Also in attendance: Abelardo’s partner, Danny, and of course, the incomparable Shelley—the evening’s undeniable star.
We kicked off the weekend at Abelardo’s father’s restaurant in Mexico. It was everything you could hope for: fine wine, tender steaks, endless laughter. A night so seamless it felt scripted.
Saturday was for the beach—sun, salt, and that slow, weightless kind of joy that only happens when you’re surrounded by old friends and warm water.
And then came the big event.
The reunion itself was held in our old high school cafeteria. Yes, the cafeteria. St. Joseph Academy really spared no expense. The folding chairs had a kind of tragic charm, the kind that says: You peaked early, but it’s okay.
And yet, it was perfect. In a school that small, everyone knew everyone, and seeing all those familiar faces again felt like time travel.
Shelley, naturally, stole the show. At one point, I lost track of her for an hour—found her outside, laughing with all the cool girls. I married well.
Two after-parties and several bad decisions later, it was four in the morning when we stumbled back to the hotel, hoarse from laughing and full from life.
When all was said and done, my ten-year reunion was everything it should have been: loud, sentimental, chaotic, and unforgettable.
It reminded me that while time changes almost everything—the streets, the friendships, even the faces—there’s something eternal about old friends.
Whether they’ve put on a few pounds, lost some hair, or been filled with strip malls, they’re still yours.
