Yesterday’s grief story, while a story about grief, was incomplete. Part of the tale. Another part is the group of old friends, the ones who rallied round, kept in touch, invited me out, took me to football games, celebrated my birthday, bade me sing. The constant friends, the one’s who knew my wife to her deepest levels and knew me there, too. They were always there even as they, too, began to endure sorrows beyond measure as spouses fell ill and even died.

It's safe to say the old friends were the foundation who kept me afloat as I found new waters to sail. And if you wanted to do a venn diagram, there’s a nice overlap of the old friends with the new friends. And at least I’ve learned that adding new friends doesn’t mean the leaving of old friends behind because I now count in my old friends circle the friends who predate those friendships born to me by marriage, my high school friends, re-cultivated through years of reunions and social media.

So, while there are men who can count their wealth in dollars, it appears I can count mine in friendships. I have people who call, people I can call, people who reach out, people who bear me up. And it’s not that they’re dedicated to the proposition of saving me, it’s that they were willing to open their arms and make space for me in their lives. And tomorrow, I’ll say a few words about the third leg of my support stool, the family.