Dear Tim,
Looking over at your desk – which has always been mostly empty, with you working at home and all – it feels a different kind of deserted this morning, as I sit here alone in the office thinking about you. There are a few papers, some stray free promotional T-shirts. There's silence, except for the sounds of traffic out the window. And there's that orange box of tissues.
I don't think I'll use those tissues and I bet you're cool with that. Knowing you, I'm sure you'd rather we find good memories and some trademark Cuprisin quips for a chuckle rather than a good cry.
When I heard the news last week, I was home, sitting alone, while a kid napped upstairs. It was a shock and it wasn't a shock, of course. But despite the journey you traveled – a journey we hoped we could make even a little less arduous – the end still seemed raw and wrong.
But, I think you know that you were a bright light here in this place. Among these people who became your friends. In this culture that does not suit everyone but into which you injected yourself fully, bringing your clear-minded judgment, your sage wisdom and your brilliant, brilliant rapier wit.
We will miss all of those things and our lives will dim a bit at their loss. But, that's OK, because you illuminated us from the minute you walked through the door. You encouraged us when we needed it and you told us when to step back and look at the bigger picture, too.
You were one of us from day one. We asked you to do all kinds of things you never had to do in your previous, tightly focused, position. And you did them. More than that, you did them with a smile.
Our editorial meetings were never the same when you weren't there and not a single one of those occasions passed without some – or all – of us asking, "Where's Tim? Should we wait to start?"
You had a hard-coded schedule. Everyone knew what you'd be doing from week to week. We didn't want to wait to start the meeting for that. We wanted to wait because…
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