This book was...rough. I cried multiple times, but not sob-crying. Just with quiet understanding (or at least, some extent of it). In this book, Hoffman is brutally honest. And it hit me so often because I saw similar fears to mine placed in a wildly different situation. And she announced them to the world - she announced that she was mad at Michael, that she was jealous of his other friends and didn't remember his friendship as light and easy. He was a strong man, a dedicated one, but also an asshole - she said that, even though he died of AIDS. And I don't think that's bad, I think it's brave. She portrayed that AIDS is not some tragic event that turns people into angels. It's hell, it's misery and suffering, and it kills regular, real people. Often gay men. It leaves many lesbians behind to mourn their friends, just as she did. And she never believed that there was some higher purpose, that his spirit lived on - only his memory. And as someone torn between spirituality and realism, that hit me as profound. I think I'll end my forensics piece of this with the section about the Great Blue Heron - after his memorial, a friend spotted the bird and announced that it had to be his spirit. And Hoffman writes, "I wish more than anything I believed that."