I’m bundling airborne gift boxes of energy, picturing you as you had been before, hoping that you’ll continue to be after

I thought about you today, my friend.

You were on my mind as I made the beds. I sent a silent prayer up for you, to have the ability to make your children’s beds for many years to come.

A mutual acquaintance texted me early in the morning, surgery today, say Tehillim Leah bas Ruchel Esther. I appreciated the text; it spurred me into action. It also had me thinking about you, a lot.

I thought about you as I stirred my coffee, thinking of the lattes we’d shared over the years. I davened that we share many more in the future.

I remembered your plight as I did my grocery shopping. I recalled the dietetic dishes you dolefully ate, laughing at the futility, yet dreaming of results. You’ve lost more weight than I care to think about during the last six months of treatment; we’re not laughing about the scale anymore.

I shivered as I trudged through the puddles, pushing the stroller to my daughter’s playgroup. You must be really cold, now. Surgery and recovery (I’m sure) are no joke. I wish you warmth. I would love to give you a big hug right now. I will, at your daughter’s wedding, three months from now, b’ezras Hashem.

I said your name as I reached for my siddur, for my Tehillim, as I let the tears I’d been blinking back all morning slide down my cheeks, provide a little comfort, infuse my day with light.

On hold with the insurance company to change my son’s primary care doctor, I wondered how you managed all your medical bills and schedules. At work, I marveled again at your courage and tenacity, and at your insistence in maintaining as full a workload as possible while you went through so much.