I was all set to write a post about this awesome dinner we had on Saturday night, but we went to a memorial service yesterday, and I've been thinking about it a lot, so here I am. Writing about death instead of food.

This is actually the second memorial service Neel and I've attended in the past six weeks. One was in a Quaker Meeting House with the late summer sun streaming in through the windows, the other, yesterday was held in a windowless lecture hall in the medical school where Neel works. At the first we were surrounded by my colleagues, at the second by Neel's; dark suit-and-beeper-clad doctors. An old boy's network the likes of which I haven't seen in a long while. Both services were standing room only. Both were personal and quirky, at times sweet and funny. Both men loved the outdoors, at each was a great story of a hiking or camping trip. Both had threads throughout the various stories, one of how fiscally responsible (read "cheap") the guy was and one of hot dogs and tacos. Both men left behind a wife and grown or nearly grown children. Both loved their work and adventure, but they loved their families more.

I barely knew the man who was being remembered at today's memorial service. I have no right to "out" him here, and I won't. He was a colleague of Neel's. Had the office next door, and Neel talked often of dropping in just for a break or a quick chat. We had barely moved here when I first met Dr. B. It was at an after-Thanksgiving party at another colleague's house, and I immediately liked him. We were new enough here that everyone swam in a sea of barely-recognizable faces (and believe me four years later, not much has changed). We talked about dumb stuff, not at all memorable, but I took note of both Dr. B and his wife in a I-might-want-to-be-them-when-I-grow-up kind of way. In the handful of times that we met afterward, nothing happened to change that feeling. He was a no pretense kind of man. You were getting the genuine article with him and his spirit shone through in even the most casual of conversations. On the drive home from that first meeting, when Neel told me that he was sick, I thought, "Oh no, I don't want him to die."

That was nearly four years ago. I last saw Dr. B late this spring on a rainy night. His son was graduating from the Governor's School and having an art show. His work was good. Surprised us for someone so young. We met someone there named Callum. How cool is that? And there was Dr. B. Clearly tired, but proud and happy with that same sweet smile. I'm so glad we went. I feel so glad that he got to see his son's show. Got to see all those little red "sold" dots along the titles of the pieces.

I'm not sure what the word is for what I feel when I cry at these things. Fraud is as close as I can come right now. How dare I? This is not my loss. Seriously, I can probably count the number of times I'd met this man on one hand. It seems intrusive of me to be weeping when this loss is so acute for his wife and children. Neel feels it keenly. This man was his nearest neighbor in a hall of offices, an older brother who been this way before and jovially helped Neel navigate the world of Assistant Professorship. When Neel got up to speak his emotions took over, but he was eloquent and funny nonetheless. He crashed out on the sofa for the rest of the night. If we were that tired, how must that poor family feel.

Don't really know where I'm going with all this, just to pause and take note of what all of this feels like. Mourning and sadness and acknowledgment of grief. Not bad stuff necessarily. Just stuff. Just my Sunday this week. But sometime overnight I realized something. We were sad all evening. Neel is so low. He keeps thinking of things he wishes he'd said. Understandable, of course. We all do that. And for me at least it isn't just that I'm feeling the wellspring of another person's emotions and riding the tide of their sorrow. Some where in the dim recesses of the night, I realized that it wasn't fraudulent for me to cry for this man's death. If I, who'd met him only a handful of times could feel his loss so keenly, what an amazing person he must have been.

May you be filled with lovingkindness
May you be well
May you be peaceful and at ease
May you be happy.

Tomorrow, dinner. I promise.