Putting together what I know about the social world and being human, when we lose someone, we can make sense of loss simply trying to consciously honor their memory. Not just by thinking about them, but in our actions. I want the lessons I learned from my college mentors (two of whom have now passed away) to be reflected, in a practical sense, in what I do with my life after they’re gone. But it’s relatively easy for me to see how to honor them, especially since I became an academic myself. It’s not that much harder to figure out how to honor the memories of family members who lived to a ripe old age, as well as friends whose lives were cut tragically short, as honoring a person’s memory involves learning from both their triumphs and missteps. When I die, I want people to have learned at least as much from what I did wrong as what I did right so they can get it a little less wrong than I did.

Something happened on that walk. I still felt the grief of loss that occupied the silences between the bustle of everyday life. But something else began to take over: a sense that it was all part of something bigger, that life and death and light and darkness were all one and essential and part of a broader cosmic unity. I miss my best friend, but I will carry with me all that we experienced together—until the day that I, too am gone. I hope to have letf behind some positive memories for others, as well, when my time comes. I also take with me, not only the memories, but an imperative—to live in such a way as to honor the memories of those lost along the way.

He wanted to sit on the outdoor couch with me but couldn’t summon the leg strength to jump. His muscles had shrunk as his body struggled to funnel protein to his enlarged and failing heart. I picked him up gently and set him beside me. For the first time that day, he seemed genuinely comfortable. The air was cool, but not cold, and crisp. There was just enough sun to offer a little warmth. I scratched him on his head, behind his ears. He leaned into my hand as he leaned on the couch. We were tired and we were sick. But for a moment we both felt comfortable and loved.
Less than a month later my wife and I wrapped Chewie in a blanket and carried him to the car. We took him to the vet, and they led us to a room in the back with a cold stainless-steel table. There was a bit of conversation and explanation, a form to sign, two injections, and it was over. My best friend is dead. I am not ok. I have not been ok since.

The final weeks of December are the coldest, darkest weeks of the year, with the longest nights (if one lives in the Northern Hemisphere and outside the tropics, that is). There is something about that last week of the year, between Christmas and the New Year, in which the traditional notion of self-reflection and resolution holds great appeal.

I like New Year’s Resolutions. I know most people don’t “stick with it,” and that the gyms will empty out and the baked goods aisles will pick up in a couple of weeks, followed a couple of weeks later by the beer aisles and the liquor stores when “Dry January” comes to its inevitable end. The fact that most people try to make changes and fail almost doesn’t matter, in a way, because it’s the motivation—self-reflection, self-improvement, and “cleaning up the mess,” that matters. If you try to make a change enough times, it’s because you want (or need) to; eventually thinking it through and trying different things is more likely to lead to a successful effort toward enduring change.