Four years ago, when I took my first tentative steps at writing, I befriended a young lady called Deb Sainty, or Stonesinger as she preferred. Married, with three kids, she became as a little sister and a friend who I was yet to meet face to face.
I’ll never get that chance now, as she passed away this weekend. She was in her thirties, and was so enthusiastic about the future she’d forged for herself. That future evaporated with her passing, and a great many people are left with a hole that can never be filled.
Every word I’ve written was read by her. Every idea I ever had was approved and improved by her, and she’ll never get to see where it will lead but, by God, her soul is immortalised in every page I’ve written. She was more than a friend and muse, and she never realised just how special she was and, even if she had, she would have just shrugged it off.
I swear she’ll never be forgotten and, although I feel like my heart has been ripped out, I’ll see the project we embarked on together completed, and let the world know all about the diminutive southerner with the tender soul.