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.