For a friend

In the year after your death, there were flowers and a new baby. Perhaps the flowers were nothing unusual, but still it was a surprise to see them — stars of purple and cobalt shining with hope through the gray fog of springtime in Maine. The new baby was hope, too, with bright eyes that captivated and distracted us from our mourning.

In the year after your death, we still cried — sometimes a quiet tear, sometimes choking sobs — but we laughed too. It’s always a miracle to discover laughter after death. Your death wounded us in such a way that we felt joy more keenly.

But still it was joy.

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