Christiana Hendrix, 1974-2007
Mike’s wife Christiana was killed Friday afternoon while riding her Sportster. Mike was on his own bike and wasn’t injured. Stunned and heartbroken doesn’t begin to cover this. Words always feel so useless and empty when someone you love dies, but I hope Xenia and Martin know their remarkable daughter was very much loved by her extended family, too.
We miss you terribly, C. And you know we’ll take good care of your four-legged friends for you. Requiescat In Pace, my beautiful friend.
Update from Mike: I can’t manage to choke out a whole lot of words right now, which probably comes as a shock to those of you who know my usual form. But I want all of you to know how much your expressions of sympathy and condolence mean to me. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. I’ll be thanking each of you who have been so kind as to e-mail your kind thoughts as soon as possible; as I’m sure you can imagine, things are sort of hectic and crazy right now.
And if I may be so presumptuous, a word of advice, from someone who has now learned the lesson in the toughest school there is: treasure every moment with those you love; don’t waste time bickering over nothing, because there isn’t time for it. Cherish every smallest kiss, because you don’t ever, ever know which one will be the last.
Christiana, baby, you made me a better man than I was, and I’ll always keep doing my best to try to be worthy of you, no matter where you are.






I am so so sorry. David and I are thinking of you every day. Take care.
Charity
There are many of us who know the hurt and the pain that you are going through at this time, but each in our own way....Please know and remember that Death Never Separates Love.
Robert Cody & Cee GRiffith
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
by W. H. Auden