I had a good friend when I lived in New York. We were both in the Columbia writing program, and we were roommates for a few years. She was wonderful. She started out writing fiction but she later started writing poetry, the most stunning poetry. I missed her when I moved away, and sometimes we would talk on the phone or email. When her first poetry book came out, I bought it. It was fabulous. I last emailed her just after my breast surgery, and she replied, telling me about her life. I replied when Dear Husband's cousin died, and she asked me to send my address when I could. The next time I emailed I got no response. I didn't think much about it. Figured she was busy--she had a new book coming out. And heaven knows my life was crazy and stayed that way for the next year.
And for some reason today I decided to try to find her, and instead I found her obituary. She committed suicide less than a month after our last email. I wish I had tried harder to contact her. I wish I had been a better friend. I wish at least I had known she died.
And for some reason I can't find my old blog post about her book, The Longing Distance.