I watched him reach up on top of a shelf and take hold of something long and brown to bring down just as I heard Karen say, “Hi! I’m here,” as she opened the screened door to step in.

I turned to look at her with a big smile when I heard a loud noise like a car muffler’s pop and then saw Karen fall back onto the cement, never getting inside the door.

While sitting at my desk writing about the vivid memories of my childhood — specifically when I was seven, almost eight, when I lost my friend Charlotte — I can’t stop crying. Why am I sobbing about the loss of my friend so many years later, when I didn’t shed a tear at the time? I kept asking myself.

It was going to be two years since Pete died, her husband of nearly forty years. Thirty-nine years, seven months, and twenty-two days, Alice kept reminding herself when she felt downright depressed from the loss and the loneliness, which was often. Too often, her friends would tell her when she’d call to sob out her misery over the phone.