Bye. I love you. Thank you. In a lastcall, sincere, farewell moment, those are the six words that would fall out of my mouth. p 315
That’s been my way this past week. I can’t even put my grief into words. I thought we made a pact that 2017 wasn’t going to be so hard on us. That 2016 had taken our beloved icons and now we had come to the end of it. Now I’m beginning to wonder if David Bowie, Prince and Carrie Fisher put out a secret Bat Signal and people are sneaking out to this new planet or even a new dimension. I’m hoping it’s a intergalactic game of Sardines and I’ll find everyone soon and we’ll all smoosh tight together behind the livingroom curtains and enjoy the nearness of each other while being very, very quiet.
Except I don’t think the abovementioned are capable of being quiet. They are loud, they are flamboyant; they were everything I’ve secretly wanted to be. And they are leaving this world too too soon.
I can’t deal with all this loss; this pain and agony. Now I feel like a toddler. I want to throw a tantrum, stomp my feet and say “No you can’t go. There are too many books left to write.” But we’ve already got a toddler in charge—a boss baby come to life—and that’s not helpful. Kicking and flailing on the floor isn’t really an answer.