There was no way my boy was gonna die small. A simple pass-in-his-sleep wouldn’t have been big enough for Jim. He lived huge. I see now that his death was never going to be ordinary.
As most of you know, we lost my love, my heart, the man who made me feel brilliant, beautiful, cared for, and valuable, in a plane crash last Tuesday evening. All I can seem to say to people is how sorry I am for their loss. He belonged to us—his family, his wife, his kids, his grandson—but it’s not just us who are hurting; my guy left a massive wake. His friends, his forum-mates, his Best Practice Group, his clients, and, most of all, his beloved employees at Victory have lost so profoundly too.
Here is a link to his obituary. It's the the most important tribute I've ever written and the only thing I’ve ever felt absolutely certain is beyond my skill. No words can adequately salute this man.
I am receiving message after message telling me how much Jim loved me. And I am so grateful to be able to say that I know it. One of his most charming—and, yes, irritating at times—traits was that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. About anything. He told me. He told me every day, time and again, and in so many ways that he was so incredibly in love with me. We were happy. I am the luckiest girl to have had any of his time.
It has been my great privilege to be in his kids’ lives. He has raised some of the most responsible, thoughtful, hilarious people you’ll ever know. It is going to be my honor to do everything in my not inconsiderable power to see that these kids never stop feeling and knowing that they were Jim’s world. His heart was happiest when we were all under one roof. We’re doing that now, but without our most important piece.
He smelled better than anyone. He had perfect legs. He knew he had a perfect nose. No one thought Jim was funnier than Jim did. He loved wrapping his arms all the way around me. He knew how to love me. I loved loving him.