I always thought that I'd see you again.
I can't believe the sun can be shining and I can be drinking tea and Mike Ford be dead.

I can't believe the world can still be turning round the sun and Mike Ford not be in it.

One day, when 2006 is a long time ago, people will say "Well, John M. Ford lived longer than Keats."

It's pretty thin comfort so far.

I know he was sick, he's always been sick since I've known him, but he always muddled through before, and I thought he'd somehow keep muddling through. When he got a new kidney, Neil Gaiman sent him steak and kidney pie in hospital. He was the world's ornament, as Teresa said, and the sky should turn black for three days and the mountains tremble at his passing.

Once, at Minicon, we were eating sushi and talking about robots and I said "Who Can Replace a Man?" and he replied conversationally "No Woman Born," and rysmiel riposted "Can You Feel Anything When I Do This?" and they were all titles and they were all relevant to the conversation and yet they all made sense on the level of things you say.

He could always take conversation on the bounce. He always knew what I was talking about. And he was so funny. I keep thinking he wouldn't want tears, even though some of what he wrote always made me cry -- his Oedipus story, 110 stories -- he was always smiling sideways.

When I was the fan GoH at Minicon, I wrote a play fake Shakespeare play version of "Tam Lin", and he played Thomas. He was terrific, and when he got to the lines about the things he would turn into, he added "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my," which I thought was so great I kept it in. And he did it on the fly, without having seen the thing before.

He was just brilliant. And he was kind. He lent me books.

In N4, the Boston worldcon, the last time I saw him, we were both at Elise's stall. A French editor came up and started talking to Mike about The Dragon Waiting, and he took the time to introduce me. Hardback sales for Tooth and Claw weren't that great, and as we were talking later, I said "If those figures are accurate, ten percent of the people who have bought it have come up to me in this convention and told me they love it." "Well," he said, raising his amazing eyebrows and gesturing at the passing worldcon throng, "This isn't exactly a random selection of the population. But hey, you've been nominated for the World Fantasy Award, and you know this is the stall to work on if you want to win awards."

He used to post the most awesome things on Making Light too. Breathtaking things, just tossed off as part of the conversation.

And that's even without starting on his work.

He was one of the most significant fantasy writers of the twentieth century, and now he'll never finish Aspects, the best fantasy train novel ever.

If you haven't read The Dragon Waiting and Growing Up Weightless and The Last Hot Time you must not know rysmiel, because rysmiel is always giving them to people as presents. His short work was amazing too, and his poetry beyond comparison. He used to send out poetry as Christmas cards, amazing wonderful things.

All the same, all I can think of today is how much I'll miss the funny things he used to say.

You can't die, Mike, I owe you email! I wasn't done talking to you, dammit. I wouldn't ever have been done talking.