Hey Reanna. On the one hand, I feel very out of place being the first to say something here. On the other hand, I hope you would be unsurprised to see me. I may not always be on top of everything - you know this, you gifted me a pin that said "Task Failed Successfully" when I left Juniper - but I am a certain kind of dependable. I dislike strongly that you're gone. So little was said or done after you passed, no funeral, no memorial, no celebration of life. We owe you, Ree, even if I can't shake the feeling you would act like it's no big deal that you died and that we should all just go on with our lives. I really wanted to get another drink with you and Brendan. I wanted to know how things were going at your research job. I wanted to know how your kid was doing. I wanted to stay friends with you. I loved R&Ding with you, and still think that pear cocktail we cocreated with the red wine floater was menu-worthy; oh, and that cucumber chili cocktail you created was a masterpiece. I loved - and this is awkward to say to somebody who's still alive - your voice. You had such a pretty, distinctly memorable voice, one that I can still hear in my mind's ear if I tune in. You were always so witty and endearing. You were so instinctively collaborative, effortlessly attuned to others around you, and the kind of hard worker that made me work harder just by proximity to her. You were one of a handful of people in all my time in restaurants I considered a genuine saint. That you liked me at all was a fact I wore proudly. That you cared how I was doing made me feel less lonely. So many small gestures came naturally to you. I miss you more than probably can be justified given the short span of time and limited professional context in which we knew each other. "But hey, that's people for you," I can hear you say. And then we'd cry together and hug because what else can you do?