What do you do for a friend with four young kids, who is 48 and dying? You don’t live close enough to stop by or deliver meals. You don’t call often for fear that you’ll interrupt a special family moment or the one time she was able to catch a nap. Resources are no issue: she has access to any treatment available, able to pay for whatever help was needed, a support system and house big enough to let family move in to aid indefinitely. When you ask what you can do, she says keep writing me letters. I’d really love to get some mail. So, this is what I did for 18 months. In 45 letters I used the defense mechanism of humor to share what I could with my fiercely private friend grappling with the heaviest of burdens in the most light-hearted least intrusive way I knew how. And in – what I did not know would be – my second to last conversation with her, she says I have got a gift and to do something with it. This is me honoring that request, heeding the advice of someone far smarter than me and taken far too soon.