A Man I Knew

Madison Square Park.
Yesterday.  7 April.  2013

I was so hurt last week.  You probably were, too.  The news of Roger Ebert's death left me a heaping pile of aching in a way that felt almost unnatural.  This is so often the case with me, that I remain oblivious to how strongly I feel about someone, or an experience, or an opportunity, or an idea, until our time together suddenly expires and the closest I can get to that goodness again is by reawakening memories.

I can't articulate why I'm grieving the passing of a man whom I had only ever known on a screen, and most recently and more memorably, via the written word.  This was a man who produced work so satisfying and accessible, his essays so full of humanness (is that a word?), that he'd carry you into, out of, and back into your very own senses.  How could you not fall for such a man, for someone whose work exuded such depth and candor?  I loved how this writer shared his own love story with us, the fact that he married later in life, to a woman whom he admired for her strength and wits and intelligence and beauty.  I loved how this husband who had lost his voice to cancer blogged a love letter to his wife last summer {+}.  I loved how eloquently this professional film critic navigated the impossible range of human needs and emotions, with a clear conscience and sure footing, no matter the topic or political or cultural climate.

It had only been a couple days since his last blog post had scuttled across my screen, his announcement that the cancer had returned and that he would be taking a step back, taking A Leave of Presence {+}, as he so cleverly called it.  A Leave of Presence.  This phrase, it's just so wildly beautiful.  I had grown accustomed to his way with words, the uncomplicated tone and cadence of his prose.  I will miss it.  I will miss him.