Once I hit a certain age, I never imagined a life where I didn’t lose friends. I dated someone during this year who told me she’d never been to a funeral. She was twenty-two years old. I couldn’t decide if I thought something was wrong with her, or if something was wrong to me—the way I learned to cling to my relationship with death as if loving it hard enough would make it into a full person. A person who looked, at least a little, like everyone I had loved and lost.
