You don’t know her name. You’re not going to get her name from me. But she was dear to me in ways that I cannot fully convey and I loved her hard. And I also know that she loved me hard.

I got the call tonight when I was taking notes on Gnostic scholars in a bar while nursing a pint. This is what now constitutes a wild Saturday night for me.

I knew that the news was grave.

I ran outside into 28 degree weather so that I could offer my full attention. I forgot to put on my coat. Somehow that didn’t matter.

She was eighty-three years old. And now she was gone.

She liked mystery novels. She had a brilliantly dry sense of humor. She saw through all forms of bullshit — including mine, for I am a first-class bullshit artist when I want to be — in a way that made you always tell her the truth. And then she would tell you her truth.

I suspect that, had I never met her, I wouldn’t have been so committed to emotional honesty in all that I do.

My job during that moment outside was simple: keep the grieving party laughing. This is what I’m very good at. And sure enough he was doubled over on the phone when I delivered some dependable jokes. This is what I do. Later I alerted a mutual friend to call him and do the same. My friend said he would do so. My friend is also a jokester. We jokesters have the backs of our friends in ways that are more loyal than you could ever imagine.

She knew that I had defied the odds and climbed out of the abyss and improbably done something with my life after my breakdown ten years before. She saw pictures of me with my girlfriend and her kids. Most importantly, she knew that I had patched things up with her son and that we were speaking regularly again. We have known each other for a very long time and I still love him as much as I loved her.

Decades before, she gave me a place to stay when my own family declared me dead. Decades before, she saw just how fucked up my family dynamic was and she valiantly stepped in, knowing that it was a losing battle.

“My God,” I said, “she really didn’t need to do that.”

“I know,” said her son.

“That’s how amazing your mother was.”

“I know,” he said, crying.

And then I got him laughing again. Because I had to alleviate my friend’s pain. He’s done the same for me so many times.

She was so smart and so kind. The kind of mother I should have had but didn’t. Because I lost big at the family lottery. And she knew that.

And the greatest regret I have right now is not reminding her of that in her final days. That’s what is causing me to cry. I really should have talked to her more when I patched things up with her son.

But at least she knew that I ended up okay. She heard about the many adventures that her son and I had. And we kept her smiling and living in our own modest ways.

But I still regret not telling her directly. I regret not giving her the full epic theatrical storytelling treatment that gets me invited to parties.

And all I have to say is this. If you love someone, tell them how amazing they are while they’re still around.

It is a mistake that I keep making. But I’m going to do better.

Tell them how much you love them, how much their actions and gestures meant to you, while they’re still around.

Yes, she knew. I know she knew. But some things are better uttered. For you and the other person.

Tell them while they’re still around. Because if you don’t, the great void that they leave in their wake will feel even vaster. And you’ll have more regrets to add to the tab of life.

Tell them while they’re still around.