It’s terrible that I have to write this, but that’s what death does to us: It makes us look hard, really hard, at ourselves and ask what we can do better while we’re here.

Cory, there wasn’t much you could do better while you were here. And not many people can say that.

I didn’t know you well, but I felt like I did; you were warm, infectious, and instantly affable. You put others at ease. You came into my life only a few times, but those times were unforgettable. Who else would dive into the snow, clad in South Park PJ pants, in the beginning of December to save a tiny black kitten that was a total jerk, who couldn’t even thank you for saving her life? I wasn’t even home; you didn’t know that cat was technically mine; but you did it anyway, because you were the real deal: the good stuff, the sparkly shiny parts of the stardust in all of us. 

The morning after that, we made a killer breakfast. There was a small crowd gathered in the kitchen, with all hands on deck. You lead the way with your awesome cooking skills. You taught us how to cook breakfast potatoes the right way; I still cook my potatoes the way you showed me. 

I wish I saw you more, but I felt connected to you always from those few chance times we met. I loved you, and I heard that you liked me pretty OK back. I can walk away thanking the skies that we crossed paths at all, the same way so many others have expressed joy knowing you shimmied, head-banged, and bear-hugged your way into their life.

It’s easy when someone is gone to say the same things about them that everyone always does; the cliches and the trite expressions. But Cory makes them true. You were good, through and through. You were genuine. You were brightness. You are gone way, way too soon.  

It’s never going to be OK that you’re not here. It’s never going to be OK that we can’t hear your belly laugh again soon. It’s never going to be OK that I won’t watch another 350 second snap story of yours. It’s never going to get easier knowing that your unstoppable blue eyes won’t be peeking out from behind a mustard green again on #croywithproduce. Or that I won’t be able to favorite a tweet with one of your spur-of-the-moment revelations or late-night soliloquies. But even after you’re gone, you keep on giving. You let us know it’s OK to love fiercely, to be silly, to treasure your circle of friends, and to forget about looking cool. You’re reminding me to be the best me possible, so I can leave behind what you have. I love you Cory, and I know so many others do too; a staggering, infinite amount of people have become better because of you.

I’ll really miss you, big jawn.