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Leo died Saturday night. Frank called last night to break the news. I feel bad. I had been meaning to write to him for so long. We'd argued the last time we saw each other. But as I was leaving, we agreed not to be mad. He asked me not to be angry with him, and I said I wasn't. I wasn't angry but I was sorry we couldn't find any common ground. Driving home, I cried and cried. I feel sad now not because we argued but because Leo was diagnosed with cancer and died in the hospital. I know he was afraid of cancer, afraid of dying, and from the third-hand account I've had it sounds almost as if the diagnosis killed him. It happened fast. There was no time to reckon with it. He didn't like to go to the doctor. He'd put it off and worry about it and put it off longer.
He was a good friend to me. He had a generous heart. I know he wasn't ready to die, but he had a good life, on the whole. He got to live in Italy--who gets that? Lots of red wine, handsome children. Tempestuous marriages. He could be angry; he let things eat away at him. Bad reviews, unkind words. He made them into epic battles.
I should call his wife. I don't know what to say. What are you supposed to say? I really don't know.