Love You More(36)

Scriptures are read. Another hymn is sung. The service moves like a tide—slow, rhythmic, unstoppable. There is an air of unreality to it. I almost feel like I’m an actor in a movie, playing a part.

Then Cara walks to the front of the church. Her speech is filled with superlatives but fails to capture the essence of who Erin was—at least the version of Erin I knew. Capturing the complexity of an entire life in a few minutes suddenly feels impossible, and I wonder if I’ll do any better.

Cara concludes, “I simply don’t know how I’m going to do life without my ‘ride or die.’?” She then blows a kiss toward the ceiling.

Now it’s my turn.

Mick stands, stepping into the aisle to let me pass.

My legs feel like rubber, and I pray that my knees don’t buckle as I climb the stairs to the pulpit. I set my note cards on the lectern and take a shaky breath. I begin.

    My name is Billie Wright, and I’m honored to say a few words about my beautiful friend.

Erin and I met when we were three years old on the Richmond School playground. According to our mothers, Erin strutted right over to me and gave me such an aggressive hug that I fell down and began to cry. Confused, she sat on the ground and began to kiss my “boo-boos.” That was Erin in a nutshell. She had so much confidence, charisma, and compassion, along with an incredible capacity to make friends and find fun. She could talk to anyone and had a way of making people feel at ease.

Erin was a born leader, which was evident throughout our childhood. Among our neighborhood friends—all of whom are here today—she organized elaborate games and plays, making sure everyone felt included and important.

Erin was hilarious. As a young kid, her wit was way beyond her years, and I remember my parents telling her that she had a future career as a comedian or a writer for SNL. One summer, the two of us set up a lemonade stand at which Erin also sold knock-knock jokes for a quarter. Remarkably, no grown-up ever turned down her offer, and often they splurged for a second or third joke. Her favorite, as I’m sure many of you recall, was “Knock, knock. Who’s there? A little old lady. A little old lady who? Hey, you can yodel!” Her delivery cracked me up every time.

Erin loved karaoke, Mexican food, summer days at the lake, musicals, and romance novels. Reading was her favorite pastime, and she once told me there was no need to leave Wisconsin so long as you had a good book. Erin loved this state, this town, and the people in it.

Erin revered her mother, Joan, who raised her with grit, devotion, and unwavering love. Erin adored her mom right back.

But the thing Erin loved most in this world was being Phoebe’s mother.

Phoebe—your mom was so proud of you. She was proud of how hard you work in school, how fierce you are on the soccer field, and how kind you are to your friends. You share her spark, her humor, her giant heart—and yes, her beautiful curly hair. I know life will be so difficult without your mom at your side, but everyone in this church promises to be there for you, reminding you of how special your mother was, and how very much she loved you. You’re not alone.

Erin’s time with us was way too brief, but it was nothing short of magical. She lived life with her heart wide open, finding joy in the ordinary moments that many of us rush past. If we can all live a little more like Erin, then she will always be with us.



I finish reading and gather my note cards with trembling hands. It’s done. On the way back to my seat, I make eye contact with Phoebe. I give her a nod, and she nods back, looking much older than eleven. When I get to our pew, Mick stands and whispers, “Nice job, Billie.”

The rest of the service passes. Then the organ plays and everyone stands to go. I reach for my coat, and Mick helps me into it, his hand brushing my back just slightly.



* * *



— Outside, the temperature has dropped. The cold slices through me. I hug myself as we make our way toward the cars, the church bells tolling. We proceed to a nearby cemetery for the burial. There are no chairs set up, so we all stand in a cluster behind Phoebe and Joan.

In the middle of the brief ceremony, the wind kicks up, drowning out the final prayers. But as the casket is lowered into the ground, I can make out the sound of Phoebe weeping. Her cries rip through the air, ragged and uncontainable.

And then it’s over.

My heart aches with the finality of it. Erin is gone. Utterly, irrevocably gone.

I walk back to the parking lot with Mick, Eliot, and Sam. My parents, Gus, and Brooke trail behind us. None of us speak.

The only sound is the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes and gusts of wind that won’t let up.





Chapter 21


Back at my parents’ house, I change into jeans and a sweater and join my family and Brooke in the family room. My dad already has a fire going, and I sit on the floor, close to the warmth. It’s just a small pause before I head over to Joan’s.

“Your words were really nice,” Brooke says, holding my brother’s hand.

“Thanks,” I say. “I hope Joan and Phoebe liked it.”

“I know they did,” my mom says.

I stare into the fire as my dad asks Gus if they’re spending the night.

“I wish we could, but we have an engagement party tonight.”

“Speaking of engagements—I’m so happy for you and Dean,” Brooke says.