The Friends Who Know Where the Bodies Are Buried and Love You Anyway

Some friendships don’t need a whole year.

They don’t text regularly.
They don’t like every post.
They don’t survive group chats (because let’s be honest—no group chat survives).

They just… show up when the air gets cold enough.

This painting feels like that kind of friendship.

Santa and Frosty aren’t catching up. They’re not doing the polite “So what have you been up to?” dance. They already know. They lived the year separately—busy, stretched, changed—and somehow landed right back here. Same hats. Same season. Same understanding.

No backstory required.

Christmas has a way of doing that. It gently taps us on the shoulder and says, “Hey… remember them?” And suddenly you’re laughing over lunch with someone you’ve known for 30 years like no time has passed at all.

Today, I had lunch with my friend Wendy.
Thirty years of friendship.

Thirty years of stories. Of seasons. Of life layered on top of life. And there we were—talking, laughing, sharing updates—like the years in between were just a comma, not a period.

Last weekend, I spent the weekend with my childhood best friend. The kind of friend who knows your old address, your old heartbreaks, your old laugh. The kind who reminds you who you were before life got complicated… and still loves who you are now.

And tonight? Tonight my sweet friend down the street knocked and asked—very politely, I might add—if she could hide 34 throw pillows in my guest bedroom.

Friends come in all shapes and sizes.
Some come with decades of history.
Some come with overnight bags.
Some come with decorative pillows and absolutely no shame.

And honestly? I love them all.

That’s the beauty of friendship—it changes, it evolves, it arrives in seasons. Some friends stay forever. Some stay for a chapter. Some leave quietly. Some leave loudly. But the memories? The heart ties? Those stay the same.

Santa looks like someone who carries a lot. Lists. Expectations. Responsibility. Frosty looks like someone who knows how to be light—who doesn’t overthink, who doesn’t carry grudges, who just shows up happy to be there.

And for one quiet moment, they lean in.

Not to fix anything.
Not to rehash anything.
Not to say anything important.

Just close enough to silently ask, “You still here?”

And the answer—spoken or not—is always yes.

This painting feels like the friend who doesn’t need the details. The one who doesn’t ask follow-up questions or expect explanations. The one who shows up and somehow you’re instantly back in that season when life felt full and familiar.

The friend who knows your old stories and still laughs like it’s the first time.
The friend who reminds you who you were before you became efficient and responsible and slightly tired.
The friend who makes you feel lighter just by standing close.

Frosty will melt.
Santa will keep going.

And next year?
They’ll find each other again like nothing ever changed.

That’s the magic of these friendships. They don’t require constant maintenance. They survive time, distance, silence, moves, marriages, divorces, kids, empty nests, and the occasional era we don’t talk about anymore.

They’re built on shared history. A common bond. A version of you that someone else remembers—and still loves.

Christmas gives us permission to lean back into those connections. To pick up right where we left off. To hug longer. To laugh harder. To remember that we are still known.

So here’s my question for you—
Who could you reach out to today?
Who’s been tucked away in your heart, waiting for winter to bring them back around?

Send the text.
Make the call.
Invite them to lunch… or let them store their throw pillows.

Some friendships don’t fade.
They just wait for the snow.

— Sherri

(P.S. If you need a friend who will hide your pillows without asking questions, I know a girl.)

Disclosure: A friend, showed me this design and I painted it in watercolor. All credit to the original artist.