Dear Jens,

It was one year ago tonight that you died. You were jogging through Discovery Park and you collapsed with a heart attack. The people walking behind you said that you were walking one minute and on the ground the next; they suspect you didn’t know what hit you. I hope they’re right.

I was at our friend’s bridal shower with your wife and daughter. We were in the middle of opening presents when your wife got a call from the police asking her to meet them at your house. We heard you had collapsed in the park, and after I dropped my mother off at her house in Shoreline I found out that you had died. My wife and I rushed over to your house and stayed there for hours, absorbing the shock and intense grief, and trying to comfort your family.

Your death was a significant moment in my life, because you were like a second father to me. I remember the first time I met you; I had just moved in next door and your daughter invited me to come over to play. She was 5, just like me. You taught me how to climb the fence between our back yards and you pushed me on the tire swing. I was over all the time after that day, and most of my childhood memories involve you and your family. I remember the first time I realized that you had a Norwegian accent; it took me years to notice. I learned all about Norway from you and I felt like an honorary Norwegian when we went out on the boat for the 4th of July, the Norwegian flag flying in tandem with the American flag.

I have so many memories, but I won’t relive them all here. You remember. Every once in a while I have these dreams where I run into you outside your old house by the bridge, and you look worried. I ask you what’s wrong, and you say, “Who’s going to look after them?” and I know you mean your family. “Don’t worry, Jens.” I tell you. “I’ll look out for them.” And I put my hand on your shoulder and you smile at me and I know you feel better. I just want you to know that I will always be here for your family. Your daughter is doing such a great job balancing work and school; I know you are so proud of her. I hope that your son can come to terms with not having his dad. I hope he tells his children stories about you so your memory will live on for generations to come.

I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you today. Life does go on, but you will never be forgotten. This I promise to you.

Love, Janie