Dear Steve,

I had just woken up and learned that you had passed on. I couldn’t believe it. And I’m surprised to find myself crying. Not just tearing up, but seriously crying.

When you resigned earlier this year, I imagined you lounging around in your giant, high-tech mansion, sipping an Appletini (hee) while FaceTiming Tim Cook.   I knew you were sick, but I prayed that you did not resign for that reason, maybe you just wanted to retire, slow down, and see what the fuss was about Angry Birds.

But last Wednesday, it became terribly obvious that you did, and it’s such a damn shame.  You were still so young and I’m sure you still had plenty tricks tucked in that black turtleneck of yours.

In college, you gave me an alternative to black laptops and showed me that a white device looked really awesome, and that a computer could look fun. When I hesitated to switch to Mac after years of Windows, you made it so easy that I never looked back, effectively turning PC into my kryptonite.

The iPod was iconic.  It was the refuge of every sullen teenager, and the must-have of every music buff.  You have made other music players bow out, because in the digital music world, there is only the iPod.

When you came out with the iPhone, I scoffed and thought it was going to bomb, because, really, what did a computer guy know about making phones?  Plenty as it turned out.  I held the first iPhone in my hands and it spoiled me forever for other phones.

After that I never doubted you, you never failed to deliver, and I actually looked forward to making my annual deposit at the Apple Store.  Your devices made the mundane exciting and kept boredom at bay.  You made waiting rooms and traffic jams bearable and you helped make my work fun and easy.  I never thought it possible, but you made me feel genuine love for pieces of glass and anodized aluminum, and now genuine grief at the death of the man whose vision made it all a reality.

I never had CDs or posters, band shirts or concert stubs, I never got how people could feel so much love for guys on a stage singing songs and mourn their passing,  but as I looked at my side and saw varying sizes of Apple scattered on my bed, remembering those nights I’d stay up to watch your announcements and clap and scream and jump (in secret), or how I’d comb your website for keynote videos and Apple ads,  I realized  I did have my rock star, and it was you.

Goodbye, Steve, thanks for the awesome trip.