Don believed in the underlying hope offered to us by music, especially jazz. On clear, balmy nights he could be found sitting on the terrace enjoying his last cigar of the day while listening to the raspy voice of Billie Holiday or the earthy tones of Ella Fitzgerald.

He told me once that it was a great way for him to unwind from a particularly busy day or a stressful week. He found it easy to relax, he said, while soft musical themes and moods waltzed through the night air as if holding hands with some of his fondest memories.

He had loved music for such a long time that he knew which songs could make us sad, yet in the next moment make us glad. Music, he said, has its own language. It has no doctrine, no borders and no reason to do anything but attach itself to our senses.

Don spent many hours transferring his favorite songs and artists from records to tapes and eventually to CD's. These he lovingly shared with all his friends and family. It was not unusual for him to pass along a compilation of some of his favorites. "Look what I made for you," he would say with a grin and a giggle.

Two nights before he died, Babe and I played bridge with Don and his wife, Joan. The first hand had just been dealt when one of his musical collages began to play, mostly jazz, slow and easy. Different artists were performing but I didn't recognize many of them. I remember thinking that music has the power to draw people together even when it is unfamiliar. Don's appreciation for the originality of Stan Kenton and the creative genius of Charlie Parker, for instance, was much more advanced than mine. Don knew jazz, which is the same as knowing that the universe eventually carries us all toward joyful reunions.

He was a brilliant psychiatrist, but he was also a happy man who laughed easily with his friends and loved his wife, children and grandchildren fiercely and passionately. I don't believe any of us will ever forget his wonderful sense of humor and infectious giggle. Even today, three years later, when I close my eyes and remember, I can hear that man giggle.

Thinking of him now, I picture him lounging on that terrace. The night is clear and balmy as he puffs on his last cigar of the day, surrounded by his chosen guests: Louis Armstrong, Oscar Peterson, Rosemary Clooney, Ella, and Charlie "The Bird" Parker.

He smiles and hums and from time to time, while familiar melodies flutter through the air holding hands with his memories. And he giggles.

If it is true that jazz is the sound of God laughing, then I have no doubt that God and our friend Don are listening to it together... and they are both giggling.