When we want to express love and grief, language is always inadequate. This is something I’ve known for a long time, but my words seem especially futile today, when I’m faced with the need to honor my dear friend, Michael Levy.

I first met Mike in 2001, when I was a new faculty member at the University of Wisconsin-Stout. Mike immediately took me under his wing, showing me the ropes and giving me advice about teaching. Supportive, generous, and caring, he was the ideal colleague to an overwhelmed new professor.

But when my beloved kitty Cinders collapsed with kidney failure, Mike became more than a supportive colleague: he became a friend. He saw that I was heartbroken and distraught and all alone, and he drove with me to the veterinary hospital and held my hand as I said goodbye. I knew then that Mike had the biggest heart in the world.

For years afterwards, Mike was my mentor and my friend. At the time, I was frustrated with my academic scholarship, but afraid to pursue what I really loved. Mike realized that my true passion was for literary fantasy, and he gave me books to read–books by Jo Walton, Franny Billingsley, Kelly Link, Diana Wynne Jones, and so many others. He encouraged me to write fiction, he read multiple drafts of my novels, and he championed my work. And when I decided to give up tenure and become a full-time writer, Mike was the one who told me it was okay. He was endlessly accepting, and he loved people for who they were, not who they thought they should be. Without him, I wouldn’t be the author (or the person) I am today.

I’m not the only writer that Mike mentored. He supported and encouraged so many people that he’s left a huge hole in our world. He was the president of both the IAFA (The International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts) and the SFRA (The Science Fiction Research Association), and both organizations became more open and more diverse as a result of his leadership. He reviewed thousands [yes, thousands!] of books for Publisher’s Weekly and other publications, promoting the work of LGBT writers and people of color. He was an advocate, a champion, a guide.

After leaving academe, I kept in touch with Mike over email and Facebook, but I generally saw him only once a year. The last time I shared a meal with him and his wife Sandy, we were at the 2016 IAFA banquet, sitting at a table with a group of young academics. Mike was being Mike–listening intently to our concerns, encouraging everyone he met. Mike never made it all about him: he always made it all about everyone else. As a result, he was the one we all wanted to be with. He was so tolerant and accepting, so generous and compassionate, and I just assumed that he would always be there.

If I had known it was the last time we would share a meal together, I would have told him what I said last month, when he spent his final days in hospice, and I flew to Wisconsin to be at his side. I told him I loved him. I told him I was grateful. I told him I didn’t want to say goodbye.

Thank you for being my friend, Mike. I’m going to miss you.