Miriam, Master Lary Leeper’s wife of forty-four years, died only a matter of weeks before. She was a mother to many of us. She facilitated so much of Master Leeper’s greatness. She never played chess or go, but she learned to fight. She studied karate and helped bridge the difficult gap for other women to do so as well. She would go out to the brickyard with Lary and other students and, much to Lary’s pride, she learned to shatter bricks. She had arms like pythons, Miriam. But Lary was most proud of her breath control. She was a very small woman and strong, so strong. She never billed herself as a martial artist. While Lary and I taught a women’s self-defense class, after hours in the conference room of the Colorado Immigrant Rights Campaign headquarters, Miriam would supervise. She would sit in the back, knit, contribute loving harassments and modest criticisms, and nag Lary about overexerting himself. And she would sometimes take the women and girls aside and counsel them. I don’t know what her conversations with women were like, only the effect they had. Miriam was a grounding and therapeutic influence on everyone who knew her.

Miriam had always led a disciplined and sheltered life. She was precious to so many, and so her experiences were limited by both the protections of others and her own passionate modesty and faithfulness. Still, she looked down on no one. She showed empathy, concern, and single-minded attention to the lives and interests of every person she came across. She never condoned reckless living, vices, or low standards. Yet, she always showed empathy for the troubles that people were in, regardless of how they got there.

Miriam knew the names and circumstances of every person in her life — even on the periphery. Many times, Miriam would order food and proceed to ask servers about the wellbeing of their coworkers. She would get people talking about their lives, and giggle with absolute strangers turned friends in a matter of moments. She knew every pharmacist and dialysis technician who ever served Lary in his twenty years of slow decline. She knew the phone numbers and addresses of clients, the birthdays and anniversaries of distant relatives. And she kept us all honest. We knew that whatever was said in the presence of Miriam Leeper had been committed to an unquestionable record.

As much as it pained us all to see her go, it was clear that Lary had held on so long because he couldn’t stand the thought of Miriam being alone. Had he needed to, he would have lived another century in mortal agony just to look after Miriam. After Miriam died, Lary had little left except for the accumulated pains of a life lived with intensity, courage, and an excess of curiosity. He said repeatedly, in his last days, that he had a duty to Miriam to do certain things. He had to pay his final respects. And, just as Miriam would have wanted, as Miriam would have done, his final respects were only partially about Miriam. Much of what needed to be done had to do with the very work of Miriam’s life. Lary brought together friends and family, and he spoke well of people who were estranged. He did not speak of forgiveness. To speak of forgiveness calls up the grievances and disintegrations preceding the forgiveness — a risk I understand that I am taking because I believe the virtue of the decision is worth commending and submitting for consideration and emulation. Lary only spoke of the love and bonds between people concerning which the forgiveness was left implied — only to those who knew. Before a gathering of scattered families, Master Leeper committed a few final acts of grace, diligence, and integration.

And then he went away and died that night, alone in the peace at the end of a life bravely lived.

In the last years of his life, Master Leeper didn’t have explicit students. He called us all his friends. Despite being a fifth dan of the Kaju Ryu, and receiving an imperial stipend to travel Japan and teach, despite having a dizzyingly high chess ranking, despite not beginning to play go until well after moving back from Japan and still quickly achieving the rank of third dan, despite deducing the cutting pattern of famous gems whose methods had been kept secret and producing replicas that initiated controversies in that small and exclusive world, despite being able to clear a pool table following any break and emulating virtually any trick shot he was shown, despite teaching himself sitar, carpentry, laser science, satellite technology, and other skills, only to tinker, build a few novel gadgets, and move on, despite these things and more Lary never spoke of himself as having any special skills or attainment. He never cared for the accolades, the titles, or the rankings. Those things just happened. They were all side effects of his interest in seeing what was just past the horizon of what he could do.

I remember the day that Bobby Fischer died. Chess players came out of the woodwork from all over, instinctively converging on the neighborhood coffee shop where all good chess players know that the best players in Denver could be found. A procession of excellent players waited their turns to offer condolences to Lary on the loss of a valued colleague. And Lary told stories of intimate talks with Fischer and the intensity of Kasparov’s manner, stories that won’t be found in print, stories which color one slim facet of the Cold War not often considered. He replayed games from tournaments decades passed and shared his analysis of positions and strategies he’d learned from notorious and beloved players the world over.