Everything reminds me of you right now -- the sight of a pretty sundress, of long brown hair, of my own running shoes, of the running path around the little lake that's by my house. The joyful notes of a Latin song. Even thoughts of my own mother and father (because they remind me of yours). I can find no comfort for this, Wendy. The loss of you is shattering. And that's how it's going to be. You and I shared a culture. We shared a language. We shared a love for running (but you were the better runner who ran marathons). We shared being tiny, Central American women. We shared a love for Literature (but while you were a Hemingway girl, I loved Henry James). We shared a love for Nasty Gal dresses (but only you were the true, day-to-day fashionista). We shared the small Liberal Arts college we attended (but while I was a Literature major, you pursued the career path my mother always wanted for me). We both loved the streets of Abacoa, those streets you used to run in bac...