A woman came up to me in Cambridge today, her eyes moist with tears, and she said, you might be so devastated by Rose’s death, I can only imagine. I could not really explain to this very good woman what I was thinking, but it was clarified for me later today after Maria and I scattered Rose’s ashes up on the hill. I remember when Rose and I would come up alone every day and sit at this same spot, and my soul was so cold and thin the wind blew right through it.

Today was different. Maria was sitting next to me, and then, almost on the run, Simon came up and he simply stood next to me, and pressed his forehead against mine, and then I did cry, for sure, and we sat there for many minutes, still, our heads pressed against one another, me and this extraordinarily sensitive and loving creature, and you cannot tell me that he did not sense my sadness and need, and this is something he knows, and he came to be with me.

So what I wished I had said to that nice woman was this: Do not be sad for me, and I am not in devastating grief. I am overwhelmed by the love of the people who bought Connie’s books in honor of Rose, and who sent me thousands of loving messages and who support my writing and my life. I am so grateful to sit up on that hill with someone I love so deeply. And then, on the edge of darkness, comes this exquisitely empathetic creature, himself pulled from the edge of life and pours balm on my heart and fills that soul with warmth and meaning. This is it, really, always for me to remember. After night, day. After darkness, light. How sad can I really be?