My friend Debra, who, when I clutched the phone, sitting on my porch step rocking back and forth and unable to breathe, and gasped out the terrible news the assistant coroner had brought into my yard; my friend Debra who said “honey, I’m hanging up to call the airlines, I’ll be there as soon as I can get there” has written a lovely piece about Patrick and our life in Livingston and the way people have rallied around. It’s here, at map on the endpapers.
I have been “home” in the suburb where I was raised. It has not been the extraordinary experience Deb describes, and I will be very grateful to go home to Livingston tomorrow.
