Not long ago, I wrote this:

"After I posted my blueberry photo, I realized how crazy and selfish it is to post a photo of an especially large blueberry when there is so much horrific violence going on around the world. And close to home, learning of the tragic death of a woman who babysat for us when we were kids. I am thinking about all the people who are touched by grief every day. Every day there are horrors and tragedies. And every day there are things like the wonder of a blueberry you picked from a bush you've been nurturing for ten and a half years. And every day there are cats doing cute things. And baby photos posted by a proud new grandparent. Every day there is sadness. And every day there is joy. And every day there is love. And who gets what every day seems to be a cruel crapshoot. And I don't know what to do about that except try to remember it. And try to be more kind. So I am sorry about the blueberry. But I am also grateful for it. Maybe more so because it grows despite the sorrow."

Early Saturday morning, my cousin Josh went missing, and soon later, his body was found in the woods near his home. He took his own life after years of battling depression.

Growing up, my sister and I babysat for him and his two little brothers. We spent vacations together in Maine every summer. We spent Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter together. But when he got older, his family moved away and we didn't see them for a long time. Long enough that we weren't close the way we used to be. In fact, we really didn't know each other at all.

Not long ago, he moved back to New England and I saw him last Christmas at my parents' house. He was quiet and reserved. I knew he'd had a hard life in our years apart. We didn't talk much. We were strangers linked by childhood memories. And I sensed he felt as uncomfortable and shy as I did, having let so many years go by without being in touch.

One day, not too long ago, he messaged me on Facebook and said he'd like to call and talk to me about writing a book. I put off replying because I felt like I didn't really know him, or what to say, and imagined how awkward it would be to talk to him over the phone. I told myself I would send an e-mail first, with tips to get him started, and then, if he had questions, we could talk. A few weeks later, I left him a note, "I owe you an e-mail and promise to be in touch soon!" Or some such. I was on deadline for school packets and told myself I didn't have time. And then I did have time but sort of forgot until I'd see him update his page with an inspirational quote, I would get mad at myself for not writing that e-mail yet. Just last week, I thought of some books I would recommend he read. Some good memoirs. Mentally, I made a list. And then I started to think of tips I could give him to help him get started. But I still didn't manage to write that e-mail.

And now he's gone.

For the rest of my life, I will always feel this aching regret that I didn't take the twenty minutes of effort that e-mail required to reach out. I will regret that I didn't try to get to know my cousin again. That I didn't know he was hurting. That I didn't do a single blessed thing.

Suicide isn't anyone's fault. I know that. But how we care about people and treat each other and reach out to each other is. And I'm ashamed.

On Saturday morning, I was sitting at a table with dear friends in Maine. We were about to start a weekend writing retreat. We were drinking coffee and laughing. And then my phone buzzed. "Call home immediately."

The ground shifted underneath me when my husband told me Josh had died.

A veil of grief and sadness and guilt and regret slid between me and the rest of the world. Nothing had changed on your side, but on my side, nothing will ever be the same. It's like looking at the world through some sort of gauze, as if I'm not a part of it anymore. On the other side, life goes on as usual, on mine, I can't seem to move.

My sister drove to Maine to come get me and bring me to her house so we could be with my parents, aunt and uncle. On the drive home, memories of losing my brother, wounds I thought healed, slowly reopened and all that pain wrapped around my heart. So much guilt. So many regrets. Why didn't I do this? Why didn't I say that? Why why why? Why. Why did he have to die?

Life isn't fair. This was the year to see the beauty in the world and I have seen a lot. But I have also seen misery. I have seen it and felt it deep in my bones. I feel it right now.

Every day, there are people who die and people who are born and people who love and people who hurt. And every day, we need to remember this.

Every day, we need to be more kind.

We need to reply to the e-mail we've been avoiding. To answer the phone. To make the coffee date with the needy friend. To walk the dog. To pat the cats. To make the bed. To breathe the air. To shower. To love. To live. Every. Day. But on days like this it is so, so hard.

But I know. For those of us living behind the veil of grief, we need to remember that it's OK to slide it to the side again and walk back through. That eventually, we will have to. Eventually, we must.

It's OK to enjoy a blueberry. It's OK to keep living our lives and seeing beauty, even in the depths of despair.

It's more than OK.

It's necessary.

So I'm going to force myself out of this room and go walk my dog now. I'm going to honor Josh's memory by seeing the beauty in every step. I'm going to breathe in the peace around us, and try to be grateful that that's what Josh finally has now.

Peace to you now, Josh. Rest in peace.