For Bridget

I guess I want to say I’m sorry, Bridget, and that I meant what I said: I wanted to read that novel.

Reminder: next week there won’t be a post about Plato’s Republic. We’re taking a week off for people to catch up. You can find the full schedule here.

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The last time I spoke to Bridget, we were at a wedding in the summer of 2024. We were both a bit down on our luck: I was only a month or two off a layoff, hoping to make it writing online, and Bridget was piecing together a living as a freelancer. I saw a lot of people that weekend, mostly friends from college, but it was my conversations with Bridget that stuck with me.

Bridget had moved back to Ohio after several years in New York. Our time on the East Coast overlapped, and sometimes I would take a bus in from Boston to stay with Bridget for a weekend. We didn’t see each other much anymore, and I am bad at staying in touch. We hadn’t spoken in years. In fact, I think the last time we had seen each other was at my wedding. She had come to Connecticut from New York with some of my other friends. I didn’t remember this, but Mengyu reminded me: Bridget helped her and the bridesmaids with their hair and makeup, because we were on a shoestring budget.

She was funny. I think anyone who thinks back to conversations remembers that about her. I think one of the hardest parts about her freelancing – Bridget was writing for websites that paid by the word and didn’t value voice – was that she couldn’t be funny on the page. She was excited about my book (more excited than most, I think), and I encouraged her to write the novel she said she wanted to write. She said she hoped to get around to it.

I have a lot of friends who say they want to write a novel. I want them to write, but I’m not always eager to read them. Bridget was an exception. I wanted to read her novel, because I think Bridget had things to say.

Another friend of mine, Patty, sent me a text yesterday: ‘give me a call when you have a sec.’ Not the sort of message Patty usually sends. I called her quickly, and she told me the news: Bridget died in her sleep a few nights ago.

You don’t expect a friend to die when you’re in your thirties (do you ever expect a friend to die?). I didn’t press for many details, but Patty let me know it had been peaceful and, according to the autopsy, natural. (I admit I initially feared Bridget had taken her own life.) After a few days of not responding to phone calls, Bridget was found in her bed.

I am supposed to be able to draw some sort of philosophical conclusion here. I’d like to say that reading the Stoics has taught me that what is beyond my control cannot hurt me, that Boethius has taught me that Fate and Fortune can be dealt with by philosophy. I’d like to say that whatever faith I have is a comfort here, but I’ve felt sick to my stomach since I learned this. I’m not thinking about the way that contemplation can save us from this; I’m thinking about the things I should have done.

I should’ve reached out to Bridget a little more often. I should talk to all my old friends more. I’m always the one who forgets to call back.

I guess I want to say I’m sorry, Bridget, and that I meant what I said: I wanted to read that novel.

New York, 2016