I have a best friend. Her name is Lizz, and she’s wonderful. She’s a role model, and she’s a cheerleader. She’s loyal and she’s a hardass. And you would never know that she is still grieving over the loss of her mirror image and her “number one.” I never met her brother, but I hear he was pretty fucking cool.

Yesterday, I was honored to be included in a commemoration of Phillip O’Neill held at the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena, CA. It is a place I never expected to encounter in Los Angeles. The spans of grass (it’s borderline “too” green), winded pathways, and a cactus garden that looks like an illustration from a Dr. Seuss book make up a list too short to describe the serenity and beauty of this piece of land. This place was Phillip’s second home in life. Now, in death, it is a second home for my friend, her family, and all of those who surrounded Phillip. A bench now sits in his favorite area of the property.

Lizz wrote a poem for the occasion. Nervous to present it, she told me beforehand that she’s not Robert Frost. No one is Robert Frost. Robert Frost was Robert Frost. And as I watched her forehead scrunch and smooth out repetitively while she read the words she had written, through welling tears and the comic relief of geese honking overhead, I witnessed something that made me, plainly, happy.

My best friend is brave. She allowed vulnerability to take her over in front of 50+ people. She mourned in front of them, and invited us all to sit, hug, and speak of Phillip fondly. I’m proud of her.

I invite any of you who visit this short essay to watch Brené Brown’s TedTalk on the power of vulnerability. It’s something I struggle with personally, sharing emotions. If you’re the same, it might help you, and if you’re more emotionally available, consider it an ego boost.

I also invite you to visit Hunting Gardens, if it’s not too far from your home, and search for the bench adorned with a small gold plaque, etched with the name “Phillip Jordan O’Neill.” As incentive to spend the entire day at the gardens, I won’t give you a hint as to which specific garden the bench rests in.

And if you go, I have one demand. Go to the café, order a beer, and sit on the bench. After all, according to Phil’s calculations, the equation to a perfect day is a beer and an excellent view.