A Little More Time
My father passed in March 2020, just before the pandemic officially began. He was 97, still golfing two weeks before his heart finally gave out. We were lucky—no long illness, no isolation in a hospital room. Just a full life, well-lived, and well-loved. But what I didn’t expect was that his presence would somehow continue—carried by his best friend, a man I knew only through the many stories I’d heard growing up.
This friend, who lived in Japan, had known my dad since college. They were rival executives—fiercely loyal to their companies, and somehow even more loyal to each other. After my father passed, his friend began sending books to my mother—bundles of them, knowing how much she read. He emailed me, too. Every note began the same way: “My dear Jane.” It never stopped feeling gracious. He sent photos of his grandchildren, shared updates, and never failed to ask after our well-being.
I didn’t realize it until now, but for the last six years, he made me feel like my dad was still alive. His care for us was so seamless, so natural, that I never thought to question it. Only when he passed last week, at 102, did I understand what a gift he had been—how he had extended my father’s life, just by being himself. He was another link to a generation that understood loyalty not as branding, but as a way of being.
This Memorial Day, I’m thinking about the quiet ways we carry each other. The small gestures that become lifelines. The friendships that don’t die with the person. I didn’t just lose my father in 2020. I lost him again this week. But for a while, I had both of them.
Bitches, some friendships don’t end. They just change shape. And if you’re lucky, they hold you up when you don’t even know you need holding.