I have a friend who is dying. She's not old; she's the mother of three small children and the wife of one of my closest friends.

She's dying from colon cancer that has metastasized crazily, ferociously; it is in her lungs, it permeates her liver, and it will kill her in a matter of days.

Last night I spoke with her husband for more than an hour on the phone. He's alternately angry, frightened, courageous, and sturdy. I can't imagine the quality of the pain he's feeling; her pain is stupendous, but my relationship is tighter with him, and I naturally attempt to wrap my head around what it must feel like to know that your wife will be lost to you in a matter of days. It's not comprehensible.

I will see my friend, the one who is dying, one more time. I'll tell her that my wife and my children and I will remain a strong part of her children's lives, that we will be an uncle and an aunt and cousins in the way that indegenous people do, a way that assures that there is a smooth buttering of available love across the family.

I will tell her that I will be a strong brother to her husband, that I will help him walk the good red road. I will share my experience and wisdom and humor so that he can continue to be a good father to his sons and daughter, so that he can heal, so that he can stay free from debilatating anger and despair.

I have a friend who is dying, and she prays in a good way, in the lodge, and with the canupa, and I know that her spirit will go to where it needs to go, even though we cannot understand why her body had to fail and become a host to this disease.

I have a friend who is dying, but who has lived.

I hope her passing is magnificient.