Goodbye, Mork

We were sitting in the parking lot, waiting to pick up a pizza. Mr. G. was getting antsy, so I handed him my phone so he could see what was new on Twitter.

"Oh wow," he said. "Robin Williams is dead."

Then he said, "They think it was suicide."

I was crushed. I went inside to get the pizza. I wanted to tell the young girl who took my money, but I was afraid she wouldn't know who Robin Williams was. So I said nothing. Mr. G. was not affected all that much. He was a little sad, but he doesn't take celebrity deaths to heart. So why do I?

I know it's not like I was best friends with the guy and I'm going to miss having coffee with him or hanging out with him. It's just the idea that he's no longer in this world.

He was Garp and Mork and Mrs. Doubtfire and John Keating. Manic funny, deeply thoughtful. He touched me in ways you would not think possible for someone on a screen. What magic makes that possible? I'm getting teary just sitting here thinking about him.

Does the way he died have anything to do with it? Would it have been any less hard to take if he had been killed in a car accident or had a heart attack?

No, I don't think so. He's still gone. He won't be around to make us laugh or cry or think in that special way he had. But his work lives on, and that is something. I want to go back and see him again. Thanks to technology, I can do that.

And, while I'm at it, I'll try out the Orkin handshake. Or is it the Vulcan greeting? Did he live long and prosper? Maybe he lived as long as he needed to. And I hope he found enough happiness here on earth to prosper. From where I sit, he did good. I hope he's found peace now. And can enjoy his laughter again. 

Na-nu, na-nu.