No basis

I tried to imagine how I would feel in her situation, but I had no basis point on which to begin.

She stood at the pulpit, clutching a teddy bear she looked down at often. She was crying, as were most of those assembled. But she took a ragged breath, looked up, and then spoke in a clear voice that was amplified throughout the space.

He wasn't a hero because he died, he was a hero because of how he lived before.

She and others had described him so vividly that I felt like I had my own memories of his laugh and smile. I tried to capture each word as she recalled a conversation by the lake the previous October. I kept looking up, however, to try to burn into my mind the way her face looked as she remembered it - whether she looked off into the distance or down at the bear.

For the record, it was down at the bear.

When everyone gathered downstairs, I met a grandfather, a mother, stepfather - and then her. We looked at each other - two women the same age but coming into the introduction from as divergent paths as possible. I smiled awkwardly and thanked her for her words. I offered my condolences and told her I was thinking of her.

She took my outstretched hand and thanked me.

She had a strong grip, but the frailest of fingers.