Dear Rick,

It is the eve of the second anniversary of your accident, St. Patrick's Day to most of the world. St. Patrick's Day is meant for drinking Guinness Stout and talking about Irish poets with you, not for remembering the unfathomable. I choose to write directly to you because it seems the most appropriate venue. It doesn't seem right to write about you when each of us who knew you has enjoyed a most unique experience in our relationship with you. You simply brought out the best in each of us who were allowed to bask in your presence for the time we had.

I remember the very first time I met you at our house on Bridge Street. You and Ger were, and always have been, three years younger than I, and I thought "What a cool friend my little brother has!" You were cool as an adolescent to a teenager, unheard of! You were always my little brother's cool friend, like a brother to me. We spent so many adventures together. We all grew up together. You were younger, yet taught me so much. We have laughed so hard about politics, capers, our jobs, friends and family. After laughing so hard together it's only fitting that there would be so much crying alone.

You were the finest of friends, a fine conscientious doctor, an exquisite artist, yet above all, a fine, loyal and true friend. Simply the best, the brightest and the best, who remains forever young in our hearts and our minds, having enriched our lives forever.

Love,

Your sis,

Mare