I face a sad irony today on the day of your last edition. As a reader for as long as I can remember, I was shellshocked by the news that all of this was really happening. Nearly zombie-like, I walked around looking for a copy of your historic last issue. I could not find it.

After walking around to a few corner stores and coffee shops, as well as looking for the metal dispensers (the ones that I would try to cheat when I was little, and to my chagrin realize each time that stealing an extra two papers didn't really serve me that well), I found nothing. The woman at the corner store, the one that sells good frozen custard, replied to my inquiry with "Is that the one going out of business? Oh, now all you guys want it!" And this is the ironic truth I speak of.

A trite expression--and I almost don't even need to tell you which one--immediately comes to mind. As hackneyed as it is, it is so true. You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. In a culture where news and great storytelling is expected for free, suddenly we are all ready to pay for your last issue.

I literally feel like someone just died. As a student studying journalism, some part of me thinks I should be more scared for myself, but that's not the issue. I am downcast because I have seen your offices and saw a family. Because your relationship with The Denver Post fostered healthy competition that meant great news from both sides. Because I have grown up with you and now I think part of me is gone. But I think most of all, because good journalists are some of the hardest workers in any industry, probably comparable only with good teachers. (The difference being that the poor school system keeps bad teachers around too, whereas I can confidently say that everyone involved with the Rocky was a hardworking, devoted person.) I'm surprised that I am effected this much. We knew it was coming, right? I don't think I really did. I suppose I was waiting for the Press Fairy to come down (some sort of hybrid of Nellie Bly, Woodward and Bernstein, your own John Temple, and Weegee for edginess) and protect all that is good. I now realize that this awesome creature will not come. Even with a sort of Spidey sense for spot news scanning and red pen laser vision for speedy editing (did I mention that yet? Maybe I've thought of this a bit much) she could not have stopped this. It should have been at the top of each of our goals.

So this letter is both an apology and a thank you. Thanks for constantly striving to bring us honest, deep, investigative storytelling each day. I'm sorry that we took it for granted. You will be missed. Not just your paper (That grows on trees), but your voice. And your voices. And a venue for ours.

I just hope I can track down an issue at some point today, and reflect on your history, our history together, the history of the press as a whole, and even more importantly, the future.