Dear Betty:

Oprah said this would help.

Oprah was wrong.

It's been a year since I buried you, and I still expect to get a phone call from you. "Kate," you'll squawk, "Get the hell out of the house. Don't let the bastard get you down! Let's go shopping."

It was easy enough, after you'd died, to imagine that you were actually on one of those fabled trips to Brazil that you wouldn't tell me about because I was too Catholic. To imagine that you'd come back with a lot of sun baked into your smile, and a present I would never wear because...well, because I was too Catholic.

But it is a year now, and I know that we are never going to go to Florida together to flirt with the old geezers you told me all wanted you. We are never going to go to Venice, and close our eyes and listen to the endless chorus of footsteps. All because a doctor thought you were too old to matter.

I am still waiting for this writing to help me. In the meantime, I'll try gin.

Your friend,

Kate