I attended my first reunion at the tender age of six. The children who had graduated from Happy Hours Kindergarten were cordially invited back to the church basement where we learned to play well with others. I can still remember the anxious walk from my elementary school to the reunion party. I wanted so desperately to demonstrate that I was all grown up.

As it turns out, I never did leave.

Their names are Sally, Barbara and Georgina. They were part of the rhythm of my life from kindergarten through high school. Through the sixties and seventies their homes were as familiar as my own: Sally, who lived in the house of literature, music and theatre. Barbara, whose house seemed to hum with productive creativity. And Georgina, whose home had enough love to make every girl feel special and adored. After we graduated from high school I drifted toward adulthood and saw these friends less frequently. In truth, I let the friendships go. I suppose I wanted to demonstrate that I was all grown up.

When we all turned thirty, Georgina hosted a party for a large group of women. It was, as the saying goes, as if I never left.

Over the past twenty years, these women have individually and collectively been part of the bedrock of my life. My husband calls them The Kindergarten Mafia. He understands that their opinions matter. When Sally, Barbara, Georgina and I celebrated our fiftieth birthdays together in Maui last year, he was astounded by the militaristic intensity of our plans. Our weeklong holiday in a waterfront condo was effortless and rejuvenating, a kind of full-circle return.

Our holiday was all grown up but we were just girls, playing.

Which brings me to my novel-in-progress Kindergarten Mafia, about the lives of four women who plan a fiftieth birthday vacation. The book explores the critical bond between women who have known each other virtually all their lives.

The book is not about the actual lives of my friends. It is, however, intended to honour them.