I have been struggling with how to write about the funeral last weekend. How to characterize all these experiences, all these emotions. I cannot do this topic justice, but I will try my best.

The first thing to know is that New York City is still there, mostly just how I left it. I found this comforting, because my deceased friend was a New Yorker through and through. When we moved there he was thrilled to take us around his favorite city, show us all his favorite things. New York, I thought, just won’t be the same without him.

But it’s all still there: the garbage piled up on the sidewalk, semi-permanent scaffolding, people, restaurants, energy, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the hot dog stands. New York City is going on without him. Humbling but comforting.

And here in this city I found my old friends. On a corner near the church I ran into an someone I hadn’t seen in fifteen years, unexpected. But the fifteen years collapsed the instant we recognized each other; joy at first sight. It was the best surprise I have ever experienced.

There we were thrilled to see each other again, and all dressed in black and standing in the shadow of the church where our friend’s memorial service would begin in twenty minutes.

Our group went into the church, but I stood by myself on the steps waiting for yet another friend’s arrival. Searching the streets, I noticed a pattern: from every corner, from every angle, people dressed in black were making their way to this church. Old people, middle-aged people, moms and dads with small children hopping along beside them, all coming to my friend’s funeral. So many people. This is, after all, what happens when you die young, but it’s also what happens when you live a life of enthusiasm, humor, and generosity. Streams of people.

I count my friend’s widow as a friend too, and she hosted a breakfast reception at their apartment the next morning. Their apartment is lovely, filled with beautiful art and books and the kids’ Lego table and a pile of wooden blocks pushed into the corner. A happy home. I could feel my deceased friend’s influence so strongly, but not his presence.

After everything, after all the years of email updates about his health, seeing him getting skinnier and skinnier, hospice, the obituary, buying a new black dress for his funeral, after all that it was not until I stepped into his apartment that I understood he was gone. And it wasn’t until I left that I really said goodbye.

Thank you, friend, for sharing so much with us. Thank you for all the tips about New York City. Thank you for making us laugh so hard. Thank you for your sometimes-gruff and overly-serious exterior that didn’t really mask your generous interior at all. Thank you for all the information about Metro North. Thank you for all the invitations to all the places. Thank you for all the memories that are now a part of the fabric of my life. Thank you for always stopping by when you were in town. Thank you for your joy and your infectious enthusiasm about the most random things. Thank you for my first job post-college. Thank you for bringing your wife into our lives, and your brother.

Thank you for bringing us all together again in New York City.