The death of Whitney Houston, whatever the final cause, is a tragedy, but one that can also serve as an opportunity to talk about addiction; the horrible effects, the road to recovery, and, most importantly, prevention.

When introduced in the seventh grade to the story of Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand, I have to admit I was most interested in the description of the character’s gross nose. But I also responded to the 19th century setting and, of course, the love story, in particular the character’s willingness to be used as a bridge for love despite his own interests.

Recently, while having lunch with my friend Wendy, she shared a story about her father, one that reminded me of the lesson I learned from reading Cyrano de Bergerac.

My early childhood was spent in a beautiful four-story New York city brownstone that my great-grandparents owned. The floors were wood and always polished; each floor had its own kitchen, bathrooms with large giant claw-foot tubs, and a unique style that reflected its occupants. My parents, siblings and I lived on the upper floor, my great-grandparents lived on the floor directly beneath us, and my grandparents beneath them. But despite the brownstone’s blueprint that gave us the chance to live apart, we never did.

A few weeks ago, in mid-December I was chatting with a woman I had just met in Vineyard Haven in the way strangers talk when waiting for their holiday gifts to be rung up at the cash register. Suddenly she stopped the banter and said, “You should come to a party someone told me about.”