Let me tell you a little bit about the people in our lives. Our families, and also our friends. I’m 30 years old. I’ve lived a few places. I’ve had a few jobs. And all along the way, collecting people. One or two, here and there, that I’ve kept in touch with over the years and the moves and the job changes. Maybe that’s just being friends on Facebook now, and maybe it’s seeing each other several times a year, or every week, or nearly every day, but all people I’ve kept tabs on, who’ve kept tabs on me. People who are reading this now.
I read a lot about friendships lost when something like this happens. Families broken. People who want to pretend this didn’t happen, or don’t know what to say, or say terrible things.
And then I realize, we are so lucky. Our families. Our friends – new and old, close and casual acquaintances. The people in our lives want to hear about it. About Amy. About what happened. About how sad we are some days, and how mad other days, and how bittersweet it is on the days we feel okay. Our house is full of flowers, our refrigerator full of food, our mailbox full of cards and letters with the most thoughtful notes, our voice mail full of the kindest messages, my Facebook posts answered with supportive comments.
And of course, no one knows really what to say. I certainly don’t. But the number of people who have reached out to say, you know, anything at all, have already said the thing that’s most important – that this happened, and she mattered, and they care.
And every time they do, I remember anew that in spite of everything, we really are so very lucky. Thank you.