This letter has been forming itself in my mind and in my heart for a long time now — years, maybe. Tonight it demanded to be written. Dear Monica, There is a picture of you. The date printed on the back says 2001. It was taken during a camping trip — the one we were all trying to pull the rip cord on Jimmy's life jacket to make it inflate. It is one of my favorite pictures of you, but it has always haunted me. In it you are clearly ill, very thin and wearing a bandana, but there is also an intensity about you. There are three other people in the photo, all partially in shadow. Your face is in full light. Monica, I have always loved this picture. You were so tiny and tough; fragile, yet indomitable. On that trip we went for a walk. The trail was rough, so you held my arm for support. We walked nice and slow, talking the whole way. Sometimes solemn and quiet, other times loud and laughing. Your cancer became real to me on that walk. With every little misstep and stumble the ...