This past Monday was the anniversary of my dad's death, January 5th.

It's one of those dates on the calendar that I've always dreaded.

I'm guessing you have them too.

Death days, birthdays, holidays, where the ache of loss is especially deep.

I mentioned that dread on the New Year's Eve broadcast we did from Times Square a couple days ago,

and I was stunned and moved by the response. Here's what I said that night. I started volunteering

to work on New Year's Eve 20-something years ago, because since I was a kid, I've actually dreaded

this night. And I think a lot of you may be out there watching or watching it through different eyes than some of the people in this crowd.

December 31st, 1977, I watched this ball drop at home with my brother Carter.

I was 10, my dad was in the hospital, we knew it was bad, but not how bad.

I remember this night, all those years years ago watching Dick Clark and all the

shots of the crowd that you're seeing right now, all the merriment and the people together,

and I never felt so alone. My dad died five nights later and my brother 10 years after that.

And I mentioned this tonight because some of you watching right now, maybe a lot of you watching tonight, may see all these crowds and the merriment and feel alone, even if there are others around you.

Maybe someone you love is sick or they've already crossed that mysterious threshold we know virtually nothing about and you long to see them or hear them or feel them again. And maybe it's your

dad who's died or your sibling or your mom or your spouse or your partner or your child. Perhaps

it's a beloved animal. Maybe it's your job, your health, your hope that's gone. I just want

you to know that in the midst of all of this, which is not really real, what you are feeling

is and you are not the only

one. You may feel alone tonight, but you are not alone. Mary Laiikainen is watching tonight right now,

maybe in her son Ian's room. He died of glioblastoma. Ian, I've got you, she told him, and she did

every day of her life and his and his. Ian died

...