It was the first surreal death in my life when I discovered you had died. If it was you who had died, that is. But I cannot imagine anyone else having a name cut so close to yours, with a birthdate much the same.
After your Troubles, I wonder that it might not have been staged, this dying season. I can see that it might have been spoken into being, so that you might finally be free — though I let go any jesses I might have held scores of years ago, so someone or something else kept you from flight. It was hardly me who held the tether anymore. Perhaps it was your own hands that gave to bind?
You were too young… but you were apparently speaking. And I am in no position to interrupt.
All the stars fall for your passing, leaving we the living both haunted and unforgiven.
Follow your freedom road. May its medicine heal. May you find some rest.
