Yetti is the first to notice that I’m on mimosa number three. I’m mid-pour, with my eyes down, dousing my internal fire with glass after glass of alcohol. She bores holes into my eyelids for a full thirty seconds before I allow her eyes to catch mine. She twists her face into a shame-on-you scowl, then clears her throat and laughs. I shrug and laugh with her.

I am seen.

I sink back into my chair, taking in the sounds of seven other women (and baby Kairie), all toasting their first drinks of brunch. In the midst of my tumultuous time, I am glad sisterhood afforded me a seat at this table. We are all writers and have somehow found each other through the internet. Over the years, and across many states, we still manage to find each other.

Ashley, to my left, smells like jazz and love. It emanates from her pores, only to be processed by a particular group of people: those who can understand that jazz has a scent, and sunshine a sound. Tyece, to Ashley’s left, mans the far end of the table, with no fear of being ignored. She’s our organizer, our general. She grips life with an iron fist, charging ever-forward in pursuit of what she wants. She writes. She roars.

No one believes that Noelle was ever shy. She is an experience, and I’ve never been sad to see her. On the ‘Gram, Noniie never fails to deliver my daily laugh. Yet serious words that she wrote nearly six years ago still clutch my heart and prove that words can make sisters out of anyone. GG is everybody’s mama, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Her light just has a nurturing hue that even those from the most stable of homes couldn’t ever resist. Erica could tell you how to love and cut a man in the same breath. She could make the most mundane moments in motherhood deep and beautiful. She is the living definition of “real talk.”

Tass’s voice sounds like fresh churned butter over hot Italian bread, and it only takes two words for me to fall into her story of mice and real men. Yetti keeps her maternal eye on me throughout brunch, and we continue the dance of mothering eye to sisterly laugh through my fifth and seventh, and ninth mimosas. She would later wait patiently in the passenger seat, as we detoured from the airport to release my drinks in a McDonald’s bathroom.

At this table there is accountability. There is love. There is nurturing. There is inspiration.

I’m mid-pour with my eyes down, taking inventory of the damage the past week had done. The car accident, the assault, the murder that hit too close to home. The conversation turns toward me. I take a deep breath and prepare to share. I raise my glass for one last sip, taking in the table. I smile. I could have been walking through this hell alone, but sisterhood saved me a trip.

This post is written by Roco Price, as part of DEAR QUEENS’ Sisterhood Saved Me series, dedicated to honoring, celebrating, and inspiring black female friendship.

Roco Price is the writer and creator behind eversoroco.com. Creative spirit running on sisterhood and sunlight. Storyteller. Sensitive artist. Rare gem of a friend.