Carry that weight.

I like Facebook. There, I said it. I don't spend hours playing games or uploading pictures or any of that stuff -- I don't dabble in Bedazzled Blitz or tend to any farms or wars. But I have a lot of friends on Facebook and I love that it has returned some people to me that I thought I had lost forever.

One of those people was my friend D. D and I were as close as it gets in high school. Both editors of our school paper, both lovers of pop culture references and good (or bad) food, both adventurers. Because I was naive and because I was a bit sheltered, I never questioned why D and I could be so close without any awkwardness at all or why D was so anal about ironing his clothes. Later, of course, it didn't shock me at all to find out he was gay.

After high school, I only saw D occasionally -- a trip to Vermont and a spontaneous road trip to Montreal; an overnight at his Boston apartment on my freshman Fall Break from college; a Chili's dinner at home. Ironically, we both ended up in Los Angeles for many years -- but because the inventors of Facebook were likely still at middle school dances at the time, I had no idea how to get in touch with him. We missed each other.

This past summer, I finally found D on Facebook. We got in touch, we caught each other up. We told each other about our grown-up lives, our significant others, our careers (and now lack of careers). We made plans to meet up this winter.

Wednesday night, also on Facebook, I found out that D passed away of a heart attack this past weekend. When I read the words, it felt like the floor dropped from beneath my feet. D, who had been so much a part of my high school years, was just gone. Just like that.

Last night I went to D's open casket visitation, and the only word to describe it was awful. Awful and hard. When I walked in the door, the first thing I saw was his hand, and it stopped me in my tracks. I have been lucky; I haven't buried many people yet. I lost my uncle after years of cancer had mangled his body and tortured his soul. I lost my grandmother, but not until she was well into her 80s. I have lost acquaintances, but I haven't lost someone like this, someone my age who was so integral to a big part of my life and development as a person.

When D and I grew apart, we were setting out into the world. We knew each other in our most perfect forms, overflowing with life and excitement and potential. We weren't jaded yet; we hadn't had our hearts broken yet. Sitting at the funeral home last night, I stared at his body. It looked exactly like him, like a Madame Tussaud rendition of the boy I knew when we were young. I almost held my breath waiting for him to jump up and yell, "Just kidding!" The expression on his face was familiar, the temple bone in in his forehead exactly as I remembered. Nearby, a slideshow flipped through pictures of D's entire life: a fat-cheeked baby, a toddler dressed as Raggedy Andy, a little boy beaming from a race car at Disney, an awkward tweenager, an adult surrounded by friends, hugged by family, snuggling his puppy, traveling the world.

When his mother approached on the aisle, I stepped forward to introduce myself to her. She whispered my name and smiled. "You look exactly the same," she said. I started to cry. Her child was lying in a casket nearby, while I stood there whole and alive. How did this happen?

Today was the funeral mass, the graveside service, and the luncheon. I cried throughout the morning, angry and sad and wondering what and why. When the priest spoke about his life, I marveled at how he encapsulated it into just a few sentences. Thirty-seven years, six continents, so many friends and so much family, and just a few sentences seemed to sum it up.

I watched his mother walk the casket down, tears wetting her face, and I couldn't hold back the ugly cry: if I had to bury one of my own sons, you would have to pry me off the casket. I don't think I could let him go without me.

D was one of those friends you could cackle with under your breath. He had a comment for everything and he was the perfect partner in crime. Now that all is said and done, I am a little comforted in knowing he is just up the road, in a quiet place where I can go and sit and talk if I need to, knowing he would understand. But I wish he was here in the flesh, hard to get a hold of and racing through life, instead.

When I spoke to his cousin today, she recognized me. "D was just talking about you to me," she said. "He showed me pictures of your children on Facebook." I had to smile. Facebook is many things, but not all of them are bad. I am thankful for Facebook today.

And a message to all of my people who are out there reading this: You take care of yourself, do you hear me? Because I am not ready for this to be a part of my life. I want my people above the ground. If you need me, you tell me. Promise me. Don't make me come after you.