Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Every last Friday of the month, the women on my road gather at noon for lunch at a local restaurant. We do this every last Friday, rain or shine.

It started when Phyllis, who lives two doors down, had the idea that we should know each other better. “That way, if one of us needs help, she can call upon neighbors,” Phyllis explained when we had our first luncheon about three years ago. We were all relative strangers then.

During the past three years, we’ve dined at a variety of restaurants, the particular spot decided by the woman who is doing the calling for the upcoming luncheon. It’s on the principle that whoever is doing the work of calling should pick a restaurant she likes.

There are five widows in the space of a little over a mile on our road; and they, in particular, seem to relish being among other women, sharing thoughts, and an occasional glass of noonday wine. The conversation will never rival that of the Roundtable at New York’s Algonquin Hotel, but the sense of camaraderie is surely the same.

Which is what Phyllis had in mind in the first place.