The memorial service takes place almost a week after Memorial Day. People in sober suits and dark dresses mill about in groups talking quietly, listening, nodding. Some recognize, and some I don’t. We’re all in long white room filled with chairs. At one end, a handful of floral arrangements surround a small carved wooden box on a table. At some point we’re informed the service is about to begin. People claim seats towards the back. I give up mine to an elderly Asian woman and stand along the wall.

My friend’s 15-year-old daughter strides to the front of the room and announces proudly she’s put together a slideshow of her father’s life. Except she never uses the word “father” or “dad”, she refers to him by his first name, Liam.

From my place along the edge of the room, I watch the crowd watch the slideshow. Liam’s sister and mother quietly weep into handkerchiefs. His father sits stoic and solemn. His sister-in-law, the one with the spiky jet black hair like a raven’s feathers, clutches a bible with one hand, a string of rosary beads in the other. In the front row, Liam’s wife looks slumped and deflated. Her daughter, the MC of this event, sits upright and stiff, hands in lap, her face a mask of perfect neutrality – neither pleasure nor pain.

Speeches follow. Three people have elected to present. Liam’s father, the college professor, speaks eloquently about his son’s frustrated goals and dreams. The brother rambles. A mutual friend tells a funny anecdote that makes the audience chuckle. Silence. The daughter stands and asks “If there is no one else, we’ll conclude the service.” More silence. People stare at their feet or into the distance. No one else?

I’m at the lectern without a plan. Perhaps I’ll speak directly to this teenage girl and tell how her father what a good man he was (deep down), or how his heart was in the right place (sometimes). I look. She appears placid, like she’s waiting for a train. How many times did I visit their home and witness simmering, snarling domestic fights? She must have seen far worse. Can I blame her for lacking emotion? Why should I even pretend to tell her something about her father that we both know probably isn’t true. As his own mother will admit later “he was a difficult person to love.”

All eyes are on me. What to say? Where to begin? Deep breath. I spin a tale, happy memories from the day I met Liam. UMass, September 1986. I tell my audience how he strolled into my dorm room like he owned it and announced my roommate’s tape cassettes sucked (Liam was always so selfish, so opinionated.). I go on and tell them I passed his music test and how he invites me to join him in his room across the hall to play backgammon (and get stoned). It’s a moment in time that kicks off a unlikely friendship that lasted until just last week.

But he’s gone now. Just memories and a box filled with ashes.

Where am I going with this? All eyes are on me. Loss has weight and dimension. I’ve felt it for a long time. And, I want to remind the people in that room how important friendship is, about how being kind and good to each other is the only thing that really matters in life. I want to remind them that life is short. I want to talk about about what it feels like to lose someone you love, to live with that feeling, that ache …

I struggle to find the words. I manage a “I miss my friend” before leaving the podium, and the room and the building. Outside, tears.

A friend comes out to console. “You were emotionally honest. We needed that.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that my tears were not solely for Liam.