“I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.”

It’s hard for me to think about what happened six years ago, and make sense of it. Looking back, most of everything that happened during those three days in the hospital is, for the most part, a total blur. Yet each year when the anniversary of my mother’s death rolls around, I can’t help but think about time. How much has passed. How I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen her. I feel compelled to write about it, but in all honesty there’s nothing left to tell. It happened, a story of loss that’s common to many. Sure it’s a story that will keep unfolding in its own private way inside my heart forever - but the rest? Well, we keep going.

Yet the other side of the story I’ve never told is the story of my friends. The people who, unlike my mother, still remain.

In the wake of hearing the news that my mother had been in a car accident and was lying in a hospital bed in a coma, my friends showed up within hours. People came up from New York City and Washington DC. They flew in from Wisconsin, drove down from Boston. Friends old and new, some who knew my mother and some who didn’t. Memories of happened while we waited to see how that story was going to end, (the one that would tell whether my mother was going to live or die), appear and disappear from my mind. At times they’re perfectly clear, and I remember what I was wearing, what I said, who was there, what she looked like lying in that bed with machines attached to her. Yet there are other times when I try to summon those days from my past, and I can’t remember anything at all. It’s all just darkness. Like it wasn’t even real.

And then this week as the anniversary of her death was approaching, something came to me. It was a flash of clarity from what has now become a chain of events that unfolded so quickly, at the time, I could hardly process anything. I saw my six friends from high school all sitting around the kitchen table in the house where I grew up. I don’t remember what we were doing exactly, but I remember they were all there, these people I’d known since I was in junior high, some even as far back as kindergarten. There they were. And over the long days that followed, they would go home to sleep only to return the next day. I remembered that one night it was snowing, and we all went for a walk illuminated by nothing but the soft glow of the moon shining against the white blanket beneath our feet. And my heart was hurting, and my head was in disbelief, but there they were, walking alongside me. And they were okay with the fact that sometimes I would talk and sometimes I wouldn’t. Sometimes I would cry, or shut down. Sometimes I would smile, or sometimes one of them would make me laugh.

I had known for a long time that I was lucky to have such good friends, people who knew me throughout all the different iterations of who I’ve been over the years, and still cared. But this was big. Because sure they stuck by me through the awkwardness of adolescence, the drama of high school, the harder truths of college and beyond. But death? Is anyone ever ready to deal with that? And then I realized –these people already knew. These people had already been there. Because this group of people that I’m still friends with today I was friends with at 18, and at 18 one of their fathers died suddenly just a few weeks shy of us graduating high school. Bam! Just like that, we grew up.

So just five years later when it was my parent who died, they were ready. And there is something irreplaceable about this being the last group of people in my life who will really know my mother. Over the years she’d hug them every time they’d show up at the house. She’d pick them up at school dances, and the movies before we could drive. She’d have them over for dinner, ask about their love lives, how their band was doing, their parents, what their plans were after high school, what their plans were after college. She’d give advice about clothes, makeup and boys (this last part was just for the girls). It’s strange for me to think about how everyone I’ve met since I came to New York will never know her. How every person I’ll meet from this day forward won’t know who she was, won’t know the kind of person I was before I lost her, had to bury her, and everything changed.

But I know that’s okay because this is what happens. This is how the story goes. And the older we get the more, unfortunately, we're going to have to deal with it. What’s important however, is knowing that you have people who will be there. People who will drop everything and get on a plane or train just to hold you, cry with you, try to make you laugh. What matters is that there are people who reach out to you every year on the anniversary of your mother’s death (even now, six years later), just to tell you they’re thinking about you. That they love you. That they’re there if you need anything as you take time to reflect, remember, and remind yourself to keep going.

This calls to mind one of my favorite Walt Whitman quotes, a poet whose words from The Leaves of Grass have gotten me through the darkest of times. “I have learned that to be with those I like is enough,” he wrote. For me, I have learned that to be with those I love is enough, because that, I believe, is life. It’s quick this time we have here, and in the whole scheme of things we’re nothing more than a speck, a mere flash in what is the vast scope of the universe. The history books will not record many of us, and our deaths will not be mentioned on the evening news or in slideshows at the Academy Awards. We will end our lives much the same way we came in, significant only to those who know us. Know us as mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives. As friends. That’s how we live on long after we’ve become fading newspaper obituaries, and dates on crumbling tombstones.

Whenever I start to lose hope, and question everything, and want to hug my mother so much it makes it difficult to breathe, one truth repeats through my head like a mantra. It’s what I know to be the most important thing in the world, what will always be there to keep me going no matter what: the people, the people, the people. Always.

And let me tell you, I’m lucky to know some really great ones.