CECIE STARR-CAREY

Jack's seemingly interminable expectations of me finally were met with the eleventh edition of UDL. In its preface, I made note of what he had accomplished:

     Jack Carey, how long ago was it that you signed me to do eighteen books to keep me from writing for anybody else in this lifetime? I never did get around to the other fourteen, but probably you forgive me. Through our long partnership, we helped move textbook publishing in new directions, to the benefit of students around the world. I never would have done it without you, partner.

     We could not know he had only eleven years remaining. In those years he never stopped trying to improve himself as well as push standards forward for science education. We never tired of talking and arguing about everything or giving mutual respect the freedom to expand. Until he moved on to some other place we can only dream of, I had no idea that somewhere along the line we became one, and that half of me was about to be ripped out.

     Toward the end, he was not letting go even though the pain never stopped, even though he was profoundly humiliated by his deterioration and helplessness. Early one morning, when the hospice corridor was still silent, I finally realized my traveling man was waiting for his GPS coordinates. I took his face in my hands and whispered softly, Follow the wind, beloved. Follow the wind through the trees, into the sky, through the clouds—so many beautiful clouds—into the light. Follow the light, my beloved. It will lead you home.

     And he was gone.