July 2008, at the mailboxes. You were welcoming and friendly (not too much). I attempted a jovial exchange. “You seem sad.”
I am grateful for your ribald humor, unvarnished honesty, genuine warmth, and sincere support.
I am grateful that you never minced words about your illness.
I am grateful that you died how you wanted to die.
A favor: if our new neighbor is “part of the greed machine” (your words, and, unfortunately quite the possibility in current San Francisco housing market), haunt the shit out of them.