Miss you, Jeffrey.

It’s funny the things we remember during times of complete emotional upheaval. You may not even realize you’re in a state of shock as you go through the motions of the day, getting from point A to point B. It’s like when you’re driving home from a long day of work only to realize you’ve crossed several intersections and a stop sign and can’t remember if you yielded or not. During drives such as this, you’re often ripped back to reality by something random, perhaps your check engine light flickers on the dash or you see a rabbit flash across the road.

Looking back on those few days just a year ago I’m reminded of that trance-like autopilot, that mental space we succumb to often without even realizing. It is the details that bring me back to your farewell, and those random pieces of the days we spent saying goodbye remain etched on my heart.

I remember the last time I saw you, you were in the hospital and agitated as I tried to help you adjust your pillows. You recounted a dream you had, and I knew it wouldn’t be long. I wondered if you were scared. Your mom walked in as we were leaving, and I hugged her in the doorway of your hospital room out of your sightline. She said, “I’m the mother” and shrugged, trying to hold back tears. We both fell apart.

I remember when Emma told me you had slipped peacefully away, surrounded by friends and family. I sat at my desk surrounded by pictures of my life, scrapbooking as I always do when stressed. There was a picture of our group of friends from some many months prior on our annual trip to P-town. We were all in black against a cloudy fall sky, you still had remnants of lipstick on your face from your costume the night before.

I remember packing for your funeral and throwing in a flashy pair of snakeskin black pumps because I knew you’d like them. Hudson sat on my bed as I lint rolled my black dress and blazer. I envisioned wearing my Halloween costume to your service knowing you would have approved.

I remember driving north on I-95. Hudson was in the back seat and it was late afternoon. We were headed to Boston for your wake that night and funeral the following day. I had an extra-large box of frosted mini-wheats in the car and ate the entire package with Hudson en route to our hotel.

I remember making our way to North Andover, driving past neighborhoods of lovely cape cod homes and sleepy driveways. It seemed the only light was that of the venue where your wake was being held. Cars lined the adjacent streets, parked sloppily half on the grass beneath the street lamps. I could see the line of people waiting to pay their respects wrapping around the front of the white home. I remember thinking how absurd you’d have thought the whole charade was, but I know you loved the turnout in your honor.

I remember walking in those heels on the uneven pavement to join the queue. Mike was already there, and I saw his dad emerge and descend the brick steps. I waved. We embraced and it felt so good to see a parent, especially one that had become like family over the years. I remember his leather jacket was just like something Mike would wear. “Like father like daughter” I could hear you say. I laughed out loud as we inched closer to the front door.

I remember seeing a skunk poke his head through the bushes to the left of the entrance. He seemed wary of the crowd but intent upon checking out the line-up. I remember when he finally emerged fully from the brush, he cheekily sauntered too close for comfort much to the chagrin of the people milling about. Hi Jeff, I remember thinking.

I remember when we finally got inside, I wasn’t sure what to do. I scanned the room for a familiar face and was corralled into the receiving line. Emma grabbed my arm seemingly out of nowhere and we hugged long and hard. We cried. I remember thinking you would have hated us for it. Emma took a shot of vodka while I waited to talk to your family, she dripped some on the box that housed your ashes. We giggled through glassy eyes.

I remember seeing your parents and hugging them both tight. I greeted your older brother and finally your younger brother. He was so quiet. For some reason as I shook his hand I began to sob, until that point I had somewhat successfully remained composed. He gave me a gentle half-pat half-hug on my shoulder. I remember apologizing for my meltdown. He assured me it was okay.

I remember reading the Yelp reviews posted about the various rooms on the first floor of the house. There were pictures and tributes. I remember wishing I had printed out our group text from before our first P-town trip. Nothing will ever be as funny as those conversations. It made me think of the last message you sent to the group, ever: “Welcome to Hollywood, what’s your dream?”

I remember driving back to Boston that night. The sky was an inky black. Some of us met for drinks at the hotel bar. I remember wishing we all could have just one more night together.

On the day of your funeral I remember the sun. It was brilliant. The day was crystal clear, with not a cloud in the sky. I thought about a similarly sunny day we spent at Emma’s the summer before. Hudson had found a dead rat in the bushes. You were drinking rosé. It was a good day.

I remember the church and how it didn’t feel like one when I walked in. It was a happy place. Bright. I began to cry immediately upon sitting in our pew. Derrick took my hand. During the ceremony I remember the bee that was buzzing around the minister’s head during her homily. Hi Jeff, I remember saying to myself, not knowing the thematic relevance of that particular insect at the time. Bees now remind me of you, always.

I remember the eulogies and speeches. I remember wanting so badly to discuss the service with you. We always had a private debrief after events and trips. I remember pulling out my phone instinctively to text you something. I held Derrick’s hand tighter.

After the service as we spilled from the entrance of the church I stood in the street under the sun. The day seemed to smile on us all in that little square intersection. I wanted to hold onto the warmth knowing that at some point the cold would return. The reality of your death would eventually sink in and that sunny feeling would be lost. I remember being told to get out of the street, so I didn’t get run-over. I didn’t move.

I remember those two days in snapshots. But I remember you in prose. Those nights we spent sitting under the stars, I remember your words. I recall your deft humor and humility and your snappy personality. I remember falling into our friendship so easily. We get one another, I remember thinking after our first day together.

I remember late nights on the couch in P-town, your accents and stories had us all laughing to tears. I remember Maureen and carving pumpkins together. I remember crying hand in hand on the porch of Labrador Landing.

I remember you, Jeff. I will always remember you.