"Your mom was so special."
"She was the nicest person I ever met."
"Your mom was so kind. I miss her laughter."
"I miss her."
"I miss her."
"I miss her."

These are some of the thoughts and words we heard in the days and weeks following our mother's death. As word got out, condolences trickled in and while they all recalled different stories and relived different memories of our mom, we quickly noticed that they all echoed a common theme: People missed her.

More specifically, people missed her kindness. And so the realization for us wasn't so much that we all felt the same aching absence of our mom's particular kind of kindness, but rather that we all got to experience it in the first place. It was a beautiful realization. It wasn't about loss, it was about what we had and still have.

Knowing that our mother was sort of renowned – across the width and breadth of many and varied friendships and acquaintanceships – for her special kind of kindness has been a huge comfort, and in the aching absence left by her loss, gives both Amy and I something to cling to and admire. Because it's become wonderfully apparent that this kindness, spoken of and remembered by those who knew her well and knew her little, is our mom's legacy, one that both my sister and I remain in awe of and are determined to honor. It has been a gift.

If the meaning of one's life can be measured by how much one loves and is loved in return, then our mom's life stacks up as amongst the most meaningful. And that is a comfort. At our mom's memorial, a childhood friend of ours wanted to say a few words about our mom. She wanted to tell this room full of people, mostly strangers to her, what my mom had meant to her and done for her, how she had helped her both during a crisis and, ultimately, in the course her life that followed. "Natalie helped give me self-esteem...I wouldn't be who I am today without your mom," she said. "I don't know if you know this," she continued, turning to Amy and me, "but not every mom was like your mom. Not everyone was like that. She was special." It was true. Our mom, lucky for us, was blessed with an uncommon understanding of one very simple truth: that the most loving and most meaningful gifts were the ones that cost nothing to give. They were free, and she so she game them, freely.

She gave freely of her attention, of her understanding, of her patience. She listened. She cared, deeply. To deeply care was her way, the only way she knew. She gave freely from an endless supply of smiles – to friends, to family and to strangers on the street. If you knew her, then you knew those electric smiles and how they made her eyes squint up with sheer joy at the sight of you. If you knew her, then you probably knew (and felt) those energetic and enthusiastic hugs, for which she was world-famous and of which she also had an endless supply; those hugs, so surprisingly strong for someone of her tiny size, were a celebration of that lucky moment when she'd captured you and had you, right there, in her arms. Which, of course, had been her goal all along. She knew how fleeting such moments are; she knew more than you did how special that moment and how quickly a hug can end. And so in an effort to make a hug last and linger, she always squeezed the hardest and the longest and was always, always, the last to let go. She lived like she hugged.

When Amy and I were cleaning out her apartment, we stumbled upon a safe deep inside a closet in her hallway. It wasn't locked, which seemed an odd condition for a safe to be in. Instead it was left open, almost as if the safe itself was inviting someone inside to take a peek rather than keeping them at bay by locking them out. Tucked away inside and guarded from fire or whatever calamity the safe was meant to protect against, my sister and I discovered what turned out to be our mother's most cherished possessions: a small menagerie of cards and pictures, all carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. Among several others like it was a perfectly preserved thank-you from Amy written in 1988, which ended with four words: "I love you, mom". Amongst otherrom me and dated 2002 ended with the same four words: "I love you, mom." And pressed again the paper notes and protected by the same plastic bag were several pictures of us, her children, and more of her grandchildren. We are all smiling. We are together. We are her family. These were her treasures: the loving words, the smiling faces; these were the things she could not bear to lose, the things had to keep safe deep inside that hallway closet.

If it hasn't become obvious, let me make it so: our mom was a saver of things (a loving one). She was also a singer of songs (a sweet one, and mostly on-key). She was talker (an expert one), a listener (a patient one), a fierce keeper of lists and mementos and of all her friends' secrets; she was a meticulous organizer; a giggler; a stickler for grammar and punctuation (who would probably point out that I've used too many commas writing this); she was herself a wonderful, expressive, and honest writer; she was a grateful enjoyer of whatever and whoever she had in front of her at any given moment (give her a grandchild and a mimosa and she was the happiest gal on the planet). She was never a complainer. (Even in the end, days before her last, she asked me in a worried whisper: "David? Are you okay, honey? You must be exhausted). Our mom could be a bit of worrier, it's true, but above all, she was warrior (a fierce one). Because along with her singular kindness there was a singular strength.

It takes strength to be kind, especially in the face of unkindness. It takes strength to love as deeply as our mom loved, without fear or condition or expectation. It takes strength to wage battle with cancer. It takes strength to hope for the best knowing that the worst is a far more likely outcome. And it takes strength to face that outcome with stoicism and without kindness turning bitter. It takes strength to go through chemo and emerge with a head of freshly sprouted white hair and then say to the world "screw it", and wear that hair proudly, like a crown. But before that, before the cancer took away her life, it took strength to build that life. Brick by brick. By herself. At 60. Which is what she did -- she took a deep breath, sloughed off the sadness and marched away from an old, unworkable life then quickly took another, deeper breath and walked toward a new one. A new career. In new town. With new name. A new Natalie.

Our mom filled her new life with people from her old one, but she also grew her heart in size so that there was more than ample room for the new friends and family she would surely meet along her way. She spent time in Canada with her sister, flew to California to be with her children and grandchildren, spent both long and short afternoons with her cousin, nights with friends, weekdays with co-workers – usually on the phone helping those who called out for help – and always, whenever needed or not , as much time as she could caring for her beloved partner, Stephen. If there was one thing our mom understood, it was this: the getting is in the giving. And she gave so much to so many.

She was generous that way, in the giving. She'd probably not want me to admit it, but our mom was often the person in the room who had the least. She would, however, probably sanction this: despite having the least, she was always the person in the room who gave the most. Always. If she had five dollars in her pocket she'd give you ten. But this generosity was not limited to money or gifts that came wrapped or in a bag. Her generosity was part of who she was and it informed everything she did. My mom's heart may have been breaking, but she'd often keep it silenced and stilled so that she could listen when you needed to let your own aches beat loudly. She put others first, that was her way – always curious, always guided by a need to understand, always on the lookout for a good cause. Which usually turned out to be you.

After mom's memorial, as we were standing on the concrete steps making our way toward the car, the rabbi pulled Amy and me aside told us: "I do this all the time and, of course, everyone is missed when they die. But I don't think I've met anyone who will be missed more than your mother." This sentiment was heard over and over and over again from friends and neighbors, so often that it soon became a refrain to a song we already knew and could sing. And in the singing find comfort.

"I miss her."

This was a wonderful realization, to know how rich and full our mom's life had been. To know how fully she was missed. To know how much she loved and was loved in return. If our mom were the one writing I think she'd have only two words to add: Thank You.