It's hard to think of what I want to write. There are so many things running through my head now.

Heather, I love you.

He was my best friend. He'd share secrets of the "don't ever tell anyone this" variety with me, and shortly after would write it all in a post or put it in the liner notes to his CD. It took a very long time for me to believe he really cared about me as much as he did. I thought I was nobody. It's a hard thing to do to make a person change the way they see themselves, but he did it. He made me believe there is something in me that made it worth his love and faith in me.

Over the too-short time I knew him, I came to discover he was a lot deeper than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined he was pretty deep. I think he hid much of that depth, undoubtedly because it would have scared some people. I remember once feeling the need to tell him what I felt about his influence on my life. He let me ramble on, and when I got done, said, "I knew that." He did, too.

He said he knew how much folks cared about him, then came the CD release on-line and the hundreds of e-mails from all over the world. I think maybe he had a bit more of a clue after that.

There hasn't been a day that's gone by that I haven't thought of him, and I don't think that will change anytime soon. I'll think of him very time I pick up a guitar; every time I play his melodeon; every time I try to improvise something on any instrument; every time I write a song; every time I see somebody play a wimp F chord; every time I drink a vanilla milkshake or eat fried eggs, something with the Dreaded Vegetable in it, grits or cornbread, and every time I laugh at something others don't think is very funny.

I have one of his straps too. When I was up there at Christmas, I was removing the back cushions on the sofa so I could sleep on it, and found a strap that had fallen back there. I told Rick about it the next day, and he gave it to me. He'd always meant to make one for me, but never managed. He said he thought this one was the first he'd made, and he'd used it on his mandolin. It's not very fancy, and it's beat all to hell and has "RICK" on it in great big letters. I don't think he could have made me a brand new strap that would be as precious to me as that one is. It's not as precious as the memories I have, though.

There's a picture I've been 'painting' on computer of a cabin, high above a lush green expanse. Its walls are made of music, and inside, there is always love. Always.