My sister called me last night to tell me a mutual friend (someone she loved deeply and I knew and loved) had died — alone and quietly in his house just steps from the beach.  Those of you who read this blog and the magazine will know that the beach is my favorite place in the world. To me, “the beach” is not necessarily a warm tropical place with white sand and palm trees (although I do like that particular scenario). To me, the beach is a real place — winter or summer — hot or cold — it’s where I find peace of mind. It’s where I watch the ebb and flow of the tide and think about the ebb and flow of life. I was at the beach with my sister on Sunday — an unseasonably warm New England afternoon we could not resist as our “last chance” this year. We ate lunch, walked for nearly an hour, basked in the sun and even dipped in the ocean. It was cold, but I was determined to set a personal record of Oct. 21 – last day of the season in the water. Our friend, who was loved by more people than he ever understood or accepted, may have been gone while we were savoring our last day of summer. He died because he succumbed to his own demons — demons he couldn’t push away even though he was buttressed by the love of too many people to count. His death will leave a hole in my life, but it will forever affect our mutual loved ones.  I’ll remember the good times – dancing at a party (my bad knee collapsed and he was mortified); offbeat singalongs (he declined to take center stage, but always sang along); and a kiss on the cheek the last time I saw him — in mid-August at a gathering where I was assembling an antipasto — he picked at the plate and gave me a hello kiss as I swatted his hand. I realize my fellow GT bloggers write about travel. I seem to be drawn to reflections on life. Thanks for indulging me.