At 48 years old, one does not expect to cry when a celebrity dies.
At 48 years old, one is supposed to be “over that”.
One year ago today, I pulled my car over and cried for 20 minutes, after hearing of Robin Williams death by suicide.
It made me ache. All I thought was “no”.
A year later, all the memes, posts about depression, beautiful rememberences, video clips, and his movies….I still cannot believe he is gone.
I think of his children. I think of the roles as an old man he would have been so wonderful at. I think ” if I could have CALLED him….I could have saved him”, as if he were a neighbor I failed to visit.
Millions of arms would would have given anything to hold him, and tell him, it will be ok.
He chose to go.
I cannot pretend to be ok with that, but, I understand.
We could not save him. Only he could.
I get sad about it, and then start finding irony. Donald Trump lives. No Robin. Dick Cheney lives. No Robin. Per William Munny; “Deserves’ got nothing to do with it.”. i eventually start to laugh, my inner monologue becoming him, in crazy, manic voices. I smile.
I can’t really watch his movies yet. I will eventually. In this man, I sensed such kindness, empathy, joy, and REAL sensitivity.. I felt that the man we saw in the movies was the way he likely was. Gentle. Funny. Kind.
Missed. So. Missed.