Two weeks ago, a good friend sent out an invite for a no-guys, no-kids party, because, among other things,

somebody is leaving.

It's the person, in fact, who was my gateway drug to Inwood, the friend who lived up, up, uptown and encouraged me to discover it too.

Since that invitation went out,

somebody got engaged.
somebody got separated.
somebody tried IVF.
and somebody died.

So we gathered last night, to nosh and to toast and to say goodbye. At first, we just chit-chatted and poured wine and laughed a lot. Then our host got up and said a few words, and encouraged us to pass around pictures and share stories, and before long that box of tissues was empty.

When I was first preparing to move to this neighborhood, I joined an online discussion group for local parents. I introduced myself and asked questions, and was quickly embraced with a generosity that humbles me still. Now take that kindness and multiply exponentially, and you'll get a sense of what happened offline when my girls and I got here.

The woman who passed away this weekend was a cornerstone of that community, a person of character and integrity and wisdom and humor. She was the person remembered last night for saying, "What I try to remember, and try is the operative word, is the Eleanor Roosevelt maxim 'You must do the thing you think you cannot do.'" She was also the woman known to gently scold, "Lighten up, sweets."

She was a writer, and in her final months was intensely private about her condition. Someone said last night, "The great thing about journalists is that they're observers of life. And the hard thing, sometimes, is that they're observers of life."

It was a big reminder to this critic to try, and try is the operative word, to strive to balance my own internal impulse to tell the story with the profound need to go out and live it. And to temper all I keep within with all that comes from sharing.

I always assume my last words will be, "'Tis but a scratch." But these days I realize how much we gain from leaning on each other, how much stronger we all are for a hand on the shoulder or a tray of lasagna or a dropoff playdate or simply showing up and biding an afternoon together in the park.

And it doesn't take a death or a transcontinental move for any of us to remember to tell each other how important we are to each other, to say the things in hearts while we're here. (It was established last night, for example, that my eulogy will include the phrase, "We always wound up talking about IKEA." Thanks, guys!)

As the evening wound down and the Margarita in a Bag (tm CLASSSSSY) drained, we found ourselves swapping stories, laughing raucously, and using language usually not found outside Urban Dictionary. Because, as someone else said last night, "Even through the sadness, we celebrate life."

And I realize it's a goofy tune from a Disney movie, for chrissakes, but this one's for Martha. Actually, it's for all of us.