My friend, Alina Carere, died last night.
She lived in a town not far from mine, and she used to attend highschool very near to me, so we saw each other now and again in her town or in mine, but I knew her mostly from camp, where we have been leaders together over the past few years.
It was at camp that I saw her last, only a few weeks ago. We were cleaning up the kitchen together after most people had gone home, and we were eating homemade asiago and artichoke dip as we worked. She was shocked when I double dipped my pita, and she threatened to stop eating it altogether, but it was too good, so she ate it anyway.
This memory is not very remarkable, I know, except it is the last that I will have of her, the last of the many memories, most of them just as unremarkable, that nevertheless made a remarkable life, a life of gentleness and generosity and willingness to serve. There will be no more such memories, and there are no words adequate to this loss.
There never are.