One year ago today, you did the most unselfish thing you have ever done for me when you sat next to me and held my hand while I made what was probably the hardest phone call I’ve ever had to make, aside from calling Kristin to tell her Randy had died. I could not have made that call without you by my side, encouraging me, cheering me on, writing out words, pointing to them when I lost my own, and then looking at me tearfully when I hung up, telling me how proud you were of me and saying that you could never have been as brave as I had just been. It was also the last time I laid eyes on you—on purpose anyway—not including the day I passed you on North Roan Street and watched you slow down to 20 miles an hour when you thought I didn’t notice you coming off the exit ramp, nor the night in October when I saw you sitting in your truck at the condo, lights on and running, while I walked the dog. For the record, I didn’t know it was you until I was several feet away; and even though I kept walking, I froze on the inside. I didn’t know what to do in that moment because I was so caught off guard, and I so hoped that when I got back, you’d still be sitting there so we could finally talk about the horrible mess you’d made at everyone else’s expense. I guess you just weren’t ready and in hindsight, I probably wasn’t either, but I want you to know that I watched you drive away that night until your tail lights disappeared from my sight and I kept my eyes where I knew your eyes would be: directly in your rear-view mirror.