All day I have been thinking about August, with its steamy heat, threatening clouds, violent clashes, super moons, and super stars, some of whom have fallen, and left us forever.
It hasn’t been the easiest month in the world.
When the word hit that Robin Williams–so quick on his feet, so thrilling to watch as his manic humor unfolded–had died, I really could not believe it. It sounded like a hoax, a terrible mistake, and I was just waiting for someone to post that it was all a big joke, that he was fine, making a movie, performing for the USO, hanging out with his friends. You know: being himself, one day after another.
That is how it is sometimes: something is over, and you would do anything to bring it back.
But you can’t.
Someone leaves, and you would do anything for that person to walk back through that door.
But they won’t.
Lots of words have been written about his death, the ones that keep ringing in our ears: depression, alcoholism, drugs, bi-polar disorder, rehab, treatment, struggling. I keep thinking about one of his last interviews in which he said he was okay with being unhappy sometimes. I know we need these words to identify certain problems, but somehow, they still feel hollow as explanations or even contributing factors to a mystery as wide as the sea, the mystery of why one would choose death over life. We will never really know the answer to the question “why?” and maybe that is part of why it hurts so much–silence is such meager solace when mourning a loss.