I would have to write a list to cover 31 years of how-could-I-forget memories of James since everything stands out to me. Death does that. The first one I remember of him was when he came banging and rattling the front door at Bob's house when I was there when I was still just getting to know Bob and before we married in 1994. James was noisy and those of us who know him well can realize that he may have been impaired back then. It was around 1989 when he showed up loud, boisterous and with a toothbrush in his pocket. He drove a beat up, later burned up van. I had never seen or heard anything like him. What in the world? He sometimes came to our house for simple visits, or games or to study the Daily Racing Form on Saturday morning with Bob. I called James my secondary husband, my go-to part for anything in the honey-do department since Bob didn't worry himself with that sort of thing and James was an expert. Bob would just assume James would do any fix-it stuff and even say to me, “Call James.” James and I worked side by side. He was undoubtedly my Person. James' insertion into my life was never an event or series of events but instead another part of the beating of my heart. He was a seam and a thread of the fabric of my life and of Bob's as well. Bob used to say, “James is just there.” Indeed he was always just there. Always showing up when we needed him and when I was really alone James came walking in early in the morning like the sun. “Are you decent?” He would call out as he walked in through the hallway to to bring love again when my heart was shattered into a million pieces after my son died and again after Bob died. Like clockwork James was there. “James is just there. He is just James.” Like Bob said. He belonged to all of us and to the world. Maybe now more than ever.