fucking cancer

My beloved friend Michael Conner died.

He was brilliant and beautiful and had a gentle soul. He was whimsical and curious and always cut his apples along the equator before peeling them. When I think of him I see his smile before any other expression. He had a 1949 Packard to which he was deeply devoted.

His wife said he went peacefully and that she and her daughters spent the morning with his body, washing him and dressing him in his standard jeans and long sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Michael was always very dapper, even when he was sick.

His daughters are beautiful and smart and loving.

I have no words for his wife. I love her dearly and can't imagine her emptiness right now.

They will have a memorial service at a later date at the family farm in Kansas.

Fucking cancer.