I arrived in Stuttgart yesterday a little before noon. Bernd met me at the train station and took me to a nearby restaurant. Soon, Jens arrived. For a while we just sat there looking at each other. Jens said, “I don’t know what to say.” That was all there was to say.

After lunch, Jens and I went to the flat where he and Nadine had been so happy. I looked at the corner of the front room, where her bed was, where she looked out her window for as long as she could. In a way, she was still there. Not there sick, however. But there as the Nadine I always knew. Smiling and eager to do something fun. I broke down for a bit. Because she wasn’t there, and she never would be again. Except in this way that she was being there for me now. She is in this flat in an ever-present and eternal way.

After a bit, Jens took me on the walk that he describes in a different post – up the hill, up a long way, to the rim of the ridge, and then down along the ridge. The walk is called the “Bluestocking Way.” It takes you through gorgeous forests and across busy bikeways. It was a very warm day, with bright sunshine. The shadows cast by the tree leaves lent depth and subtlety to the greenery that surrounded us.

Jens and I talked the whole way – punctuated by moments of silence, of course. Because it wasn’t easy to talk about what we were talking about. About missing her. About knowing she is gone. About feeling her around constantly. About how to go on. About how to not go on until it is time to do so. About her. About her silly obstinate perfection. About the wounds that each of us felt at her loss, that were separate and different – each of us having known her in very different ways – but that enabled the two of us men to feel together as we walked through the woods.

Bernd had driven, and he met us at Waldfriedhof. The three of us walked slowly towards Nadine’s grave. It is the perfect place for her. Beneath a very tall, very strong tree, with not much growth around it. The tree seems to demand all the nutrients and all the attention from anyone nearby. But it has made room for Nadine. The metal plate with her name and date is nailed to the tree. A small pine cone and a small seashell nestle between roots below her name. And a rock sits a few feet away marking where her ashes are buried. The tree is embracing her, protecting her. She is part of this ground.

Jens, Bernd, and I stood there, quietly, alone with our individual thoughts, listening to the songs that Jens had gathered together for her funeral service. Just the right songs, each adding flowing moments of attachment, linking Jens and Nadine through their mutual love of music and, of course, each other. Again, I knew she was there with us. This time I talked to her. I promised her that the great gift that she had given to the world, her amazing ability to give and always give more, would continue to grow and flow through all those she had loved. That it would never ever leave this world.

I am so grateful to have known Nadine, to have had her in my life. I am very very grateful that Jens allowed me to accompany him on his sacred walk to her grave. And I am grateful that Bernd was able to come with us.

Never goodbye. Only, until the next time.

Nadine,

dearest, dearest Nadine – you entered our lives, you exploded into our lives, in Kansas. With an irrepressible joy and positivity. You commanded Claire’s attention and gave her enormous gifts of patience and kindness for many years. You were her first babysitter in Kansas, and you put up with her childish games even as you taught her even more fun games to play.

I loved it when you moved into our house on Vermont Street. You were gone more than you were home, busy with other aspects of your life. I was always happy to see you and happy to think of you when you were busy seeing other people, hanging out with other friends. You became part of our family so easily, so smoothly, that it seems like you were always here, always a part of us. Your masters thesis, which explored emotional trauma through an analysis of autobiographies, taught me so much about the power of writing to deal with, if not to heal, the troubles we all encounter simply as part of being human. Your wisdom was always so exceptional.

I just returned to Columbus from a week in Japan. My first time there. While I was there, I thought often of our first trip to Germany. Shari had a short appointment at the Max Planck in Leipzig. You helped set up a visit for me to your university in Tübingen. Then we visited your parents’ house. They graciously opened their doors to us. We met your cousins and saw the flower shop. And Claire tied up your parents’ front room with colored string. Then you came with us to Leipzig and even accompanied Claire and myself to Frankfurt. You gave almost two weeks of your life to us, helping us navigate your country for our first visit.

I’ll never forget the first time you told us about Jens. About how he brought you such joy and meaning. How he didn’t really like America. And maybe wouldn’t ever come to visit. That turned out to be a false worry. Just as you became part of our lives so quickly, so did Jens. My visits to Stuttgart almost five years ago are among my most treasured memories. Lots of music. Lots of football. Trips to the art museum (even if Jens didn’t want to go there.) Getting to know Jens was another gift you gave to us.

Generous. Kind. Maybe too considerate of others. Always looking for ways to make the world a more positive place. Your gifts to us have become intimate parts of who we are. I will always look in my heart and find you there.

We will love you forever, my dear friend. Be at peace.

Love, Barry