On April 14th, my friend, Kyle, died in a tragic rock climbing accident. Two weeks later, I flew to Oregon for the celebration of life and I stayed with his wife and daughters in their guest room. At one point in time, I spent so much time with them that their guest room felt more like home than my own house. However, I’d never been to this particular house since they’d moved to Oregon. I’d always meant to, but I hadn’t made it before now. I foolishly thought I’d had more time, but that’s just a lie we tell ourselves until it’s too late. Being surrounded by the possessions of a dead person both helps and hurts. Staying in the guest room amongst Kyle’s stuff was…strange. So many things were as he left them and it felt like at any time he’d stick his head into the room to let me know he was going to “grab something off the

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