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September 11, 2016


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Always loved your blog, and miss that euphoric and heartfelt community. This will be the most stirring remembrance of 911.


Time does not heal, time merely provides a measutement of distance. The analogy of "we learn to dance with the limp" reminds me of my Hassidic roots. The Hassids dance as a way to express their feelings, even while grieving. They remind us their is joy to be had in life as we dance through it. Also we have the BeeGees to remind us "You shoulf be dancin' yeah..."


Thank you for posting and sharing your memories of Andy with us. I always remember to come to your blog to read your yearly letters to Andy.


"Everything is everything, but you're missing" is how it feels. This one made me cry, Pierre. I just listened to The Rising CD of Springsteen and it captures so much emotion of that day. You're Missing is one of those songs...
Andy's spirit is just as vivid as his person because he has you to bring it back to people like me, who only know you because of your eloquence to write and remember him and the soul you loved. And because of you, we want to remember Andy, too, even though you fear the fading. Embrace this little slice of joy you've created as we marvel at the friendship and love you show us for Andy every year. Thank you.


Fifteen years feels like a long time. As your years without Andy pass, my "baby" in my belly 15 years ago just started high school. And even with all these years, it still feels scary, sad and unbelievable. Thank you for these posts.


Beautiful writing about the hardest thing.


I come back every year to read your letter to Andy. It helps me get through this day - the events that continue to make no sense!!!


I understand what you are saying about feeling guilty, but please don't. You were the best friend Andy could have had...in life & now in death. What a beautiful & heartfelt tribute once again. I didn't know anyone personally who lost their lives that tragic day, yet every year I read your letter & weep for those lost lives & for all left behind. Rest in peace Andy. Pierre, sending love to you from Baton Rouge.


Every year I look forward to reading your letter to Andy. Thank you for sharing your friend with us and allowing us to know him through all the heartfelt words you put on this blog.


As with others, I come back every year to read your beautiful letters to Andy. Your yearly tribute serves as a reminder for me to savor the moments that matter with the people that I love. I am grateful. You and Andy both seem blessed for having been part of each other's lives.


Like many others, I come to your blog every year to read and remember your friend. It certainly doesn't feel like 15 years. Peace to you and all.


A wonderful piece as beautifully written as always. #neverforget


It's nice that you remember your friend annually with letters. What seems less sensitive is using someone else's death as a literary device (e.g. I mourn one but not the other, one was youth tragically cut short, the other an old man who probably didn't have much left in him anyway). And I would think that even if that person hadn't been your relative, which he was. And I would think that even if I weren't his daughter, which I am. It just seems in poor taste and judgment.

Additionally, your remembrance, loyalty and love for your friend is admirable. If only they could be extended to your family members? Your parents looked rather lonely at the dinner they hosted shortly after the funeral, for the members of your family who flew in from Korea and California for the services and to grieve together. And we also missed you at the funeral. I'm aware that you were not well acquainted with my father or the rest of the family, so I do not expect you to be terribly upset at my fathers passing (which, obviously as you have proclaimed, you are not). I would expect you to have some more compassion for your own father, at 88 years old, who has just lost his last remaining sibling, the final of four brothers to predecease him. That can't feel good. And I could tell from seeing him and speaking with him, that he's in pain and broken hearted, and largely suffering alone. But maybe as you say, that's just part of the unfairness of life sometimes.

Ps. We consider my fathers death, though he was 76, also untimely and tragically early. He was running several companies, hiking two hours a day (last year he slowed down and ceased running an hour a day), traveling the world, learning to play the saxophone, and spending lots of time with his five grandchildren who loved him and love him still. There is never a need to compare the quality or value of one life over another.


Thanks for sharing your memories of Andy. I'm always deeply touched to read them. They make me wish I knew him, and think about how lucky you were to have a friendship like that. I do believe his spirit lives on.

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