It's 40 years—October 22, 1973—since one of my closest friends died. Lucy Kerschberger was 22, in London on a Marshall fellowship, and apparently had an aneurysm. She was a talented writer with a throaty chuckle that belied her fragile blond prettiness. I still feel such pangs of sorrow, but no longer know if it's for the life she would have had, the decades-long friendship we didn't have, or the unfairness: 22! At the time I remember thinking that at least she'd lived a good long life: 22!