Almost nobody is good at them. They are hard to write. It's difficult to know what to say. They are hard to read. You know that no matter how well you do it, it's going to be painful to read, because that's just the way it is.

A few months before my father died I wrote notes to my great-uncle whose wife had died and to his two daughters. Writing letters has never been much of a problem for me, but I have little experience (thank goodness) writing notes to people in grief, so I checked my Emily Post book. She had a great hint: mention something in the letter that is meaningful about the person who has died. It can be a memory or just something you particularly liked about the person.

I tried it and instead of writing a stiff letter saying that I was sorry for someone's grief, I ended up with a thoughtful note that said something nice about a woman I had not seen since I was a little girl. A few weeks later I got a note from one of the cousins who said that her father threw all but a few of the notes and letters away that he got, but mine was one that he kept.

I didn't receive very many letters of condolence since my father died. Maybe because they are so uncomfortable to write. Most of my friends called on the phone which was nice, but awkward at times because death is such an emotional event. What is important is to make mention of it, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you. People will take note and remember.

I received two letters that were particularly meaningful to me and I wanted to share them because maybe it will help you one day if you have to write one of these notes. Both were sent by email, both were written by men.

The first is from someone I have known for several months, but have never met. We have a rich correspondence and do our best to entertain one another with our email missives.

Dearest Wendy,

You honor me by sharing your sad news. Perhaps you remembered my telling you of being alienated from my own father.

So it's a fitting coincidence to hear from you on Adolph's 91st birthday, on which I had reluctantly phoned him prior to your e-mail.

You've done the important work for yourself, Wendy. Hard, I am certain, but clearly thoroughly and well. He was a fortunate parent, a legacy of which he had to have been proud.

You and Rob are bonding all the more now. A rich inheritance.

Dear Wendy,

I was just wasting time at work when I happened to take my periodic peek at your wendy.com website and read of your father's death. I am so sorry and wanted to offer my condolences. Email is such a poor format for this, and normally I would send a real card, but since it is already a month past I decided on speed over other issues. The news must have reached you right around when I called, and I can only imagine how difficult this must have been for you, coming right on the heels of your wedding.

There is obviously no good time or way for someone whom you care about to die, and I am sorry to read that your father's wife managed to only increase the pain for yourself and your brothers.

On the blessedly few occasions when I have had to write to convey my condolences, I am always at a loss for words... I think back to the summer when both my grandparents died (both of my mother's parents had died when I was very young) and just remember in particular how I felt when I learned of my grandmother's death, how I wanted to somehow tell everyone I knew about it and somehow express the loss I was feeling.

It is times like this that I most feel the physical distance that separates me from you and others of my friends; as much as I enjoy our correspondence, it would be so much better if I could convey my condolences in person. But at the very least I want you to know that I am out here and care and still waiting to take you on a train ride. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.

Those left behind feel pain whether you write or not. Open yourself to those in grief and don't be afraid to say what you really feel, even if it's to tell them, "I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say, but I'm here for you." There is beauty in the honest confrontation of death and grief and only more hurt in the awkward avoidance of bringing it into the light.