Erica, Steve and The Saints of Lost Causes

11 years. The days fell the same this weekend.

You reached out that Friday afternoon to tell me you were sorry about abandoning our friendship, and you wished my new family well.

I saw Steve Earle this Friday, what a strange, oddly perfect connection. He played songs from "Ghosts of West Virginia," about the 29 miners killed the spring before you died, the worst mine disaster in 40 years. He made the audience sing along to "Union, God and Country," warning us if we didn't sing people were liable to think we were scabs.

This would have made you laugh. I remember how you cheered him on when he shared his politics before "Devil's Right Hand," "Billy Austin," or even "The Revolution Starts Now."

Then he sang "Far Away In Another Town," "The Saint of Lost Causes" and "Harlem River Blues" from his "J.T." album. That brought everything home. "The Saint of Lost Causes" seemed to me the highlight of one of the best shows I've seen from him ever, a show that never let up to its closing cover of "Rag Mama Rag."

But the band sounded bigger than ever on "The Saint of Lost Causes," full and haunting and ominous. Steve never sounded better either. Nothing felt tossed off. He sang every note like he meant it.

And that thing about wolves and shepherds and who's killed more sheep. You and I would have talked about that, better now than in the past.

I guess we are now, the only way we can.

Sunday, Monday and today were all more tough anniversaries from that same terrible weekend. It felt like it was all falling this way for a reason, or at least I'm going to make reason of it. That's my job. In many ways, you taught me just how important that job is. Whether or not our conversation could have shifted to one with a little more hope now only matters in the way I deal better with others going forward.

Meanwhile, I continue to grieve, but I'm determined to do it differently. My dad and I went to Santa Fe, New Mexico to hear a man named Stephen Jenkinson talk about death when my father knew he was in his last year. I went looking for a quote from Jenkinson that I carry with me often, one about grief being the love for that which has passed from view.

I found another one by accident, and it speaks to how I'm looking at this anniversary. “Grief is not a feeling; it is a capacity. It is not something that disables you. We are not on the receiving end of grief; we are on the practising end of grief.”

When I was facing disability twenty years ago, you helped me fight my way forward. Maybe I did something like this a time or two for you. I hope so. Either way, your memory shows me what you always showed me--possibility, a way to rise, a way to be more fully me, and a way to fight.

That was a fine band the other night. You should have heard fiddler Eleanor Whitmore sing "If I Could See Your Face Again." I can see yours--watching her, listening, loving music in a way very particular to you.

It was a concert made for you. And it was a concert made for me, BC and Ben, all the more grateful we still have one another after all these years . . . me all the more grateful for you.