At no other time have I been as ready for spring to come. This winter season I have lost six friends, some of them close friends for many years, one of them a lifelong friend.

“To every thing there is season …” according to Ecclesiastes, “a time to be born, and a time to die … A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

A longtime friend – tested and true – died suddenly in Ellsworth, leaving behind two stunned and saddened sons, her bereft father, devoted husband and friend, an ex-husband who spoke eloquently at the funeral and hundreds of shocked friends and family who saw her one day and not the next.

The card on her wreath read, “in memory of a beautiful person,” for that she was. And I’ve thought of her ever since – and the family she left behind. I have certainly cried, then laughed at memories. Oh, how she touched me … and so many others.

Again during the holiday season came the word that a Sullivan man cherished by his family and extended community died unexpectedly. His service was marked by a moving tribute from his young son and by photographs on the church reception hall of him, his wife, daughter and son: “his world,” wrapped in an envelope around him. He touched me … and, so many others.

Later this bleak winter, another dear friend died. She joined her deceased husband, from whom separation apparently was unbearable. In Maine, in Florida, in Colorado – wherever she lived – she brought joy to lives around her, in addition to bringing homegrown vegetables, the best dilly beans and pickles known to mankind and her characteristic storytelling that still holds me in awe. She touched me … and so many others.

An unforgettable friend – as they all were – painted rooms of an elegant house in town one day and then died en route to the hospital the next, suffering from intestinal disorders, then heart problems.

One of his oldest and best friends – and mine – called at 6:15 a.m. with the sad news, and all I could say was “I don’t want to hear it.”

No one could; and they still couldn’t believe it when more than 300 family and friends turned out for a celebration of life for this ordinary, middle-aged guy who was a much beloved fixture in this small community. He touched us all.

Tomorrow, the funeral service will be held in Pittsburgh for an intelligent, caring, courageous woman younger than I who battled rheumatoid arthritis for more than 30 years while her husband performed Herculean efforts to keep the inevitable from happening.

After more than a year hospitalized, she died last weekend. I grieve not her death but the fact the disease caused her and her loved ones horrific suffering for so long. She touched everyone who knew her.

The phone just rang from a friend in Mississippi with the news that another of the “carpool” moms has died; that another small heart of roses will be sent to the funeral home from the five of us “surrogate” daughters who loved her from first grade on till now. Oh, how she touched us.

Since right before Christmas, I have been weeping … and laughing … and mourning, as Ecclesiastes says. But as yet, I haven’t danced.

As soon as spring comes this week, I bet I will. All of them – these friends who left their own indelible marks – would want me to.