Thirty years and a month ago, a beginning author met a young journalist in a Chinese Restaurant, and the two men became friends, and they wrote a book, and they managed to stay friends despite everything. Last night, the author died.
There was nobody like him. I was fortunate to have written a book with him, when we were younger, which taught me so much.
This was the last thing I wrote about Terry. I knew his death was coming and it made it no easier:
I'll miss you, Terry.
I'm not up to writing anything yet. Maybe one day.