Robbed

I am 5. I don't know much about how my parents make our little world go around, but I can tell that they like it when he is on TV. We stop doing other things and gather together to watch him. He says things that make no sense, but they seem to love it. They laugh. I notice.

I am 6. That same man from the show I love is playing Popeye in a movie. We go to see it together. He is kind to strangers, he stands up for people who have been wronged, and he has a difficult relationship with his Dad. He sings and dances, and everything turns out ok.

I am 9. I have a tape player that I listen to every night as I am falling asleep. It's never music, only stand up. A Night at the Met gets flipped two, three times a night. I listen fiercely, desperate to envision what I am hearing. Trying to comprehend the energy and stamina it takes to release that much, that fast, that perfectly. The laughter is a roar, and it's at an opera house. This feels amazing.

I am 13. Vietnam is one of the hardest things for me to process and understand. I am fearful of it and confused as to how we could have allowed it to happen. He makes a movie that holds my hand, and helps me to understand what it was like. Helps me see that people tried. 

I am 15. Things are hard and my faith in adults is shaken. I can't connect to literature, and I can't connect to school. He shows me that there is value in the connection you make yourself. To art, and to each other. He helps me reassess my values, and find some pride in my view of the world.

I am 17. I am worried about how to become an adult. He shows me that it's ok if a part of you never does. He teaches me how to hang on to the wonder of youth. I realize that what I was, I am, and always will be, no matter what else I also become.

I am 22. He has been more of a Shepard for people younger than I for the last several years, but I still smile when I see or hear him. In one of his most beautiful roles, he teaches me that love is love, and family is family, no matter what. I vow not to forget those lessons ever again.

I am 23. In 2 hours, he teaches me everything I need to know about how to be a man.

I am 38. He appears, out of nowhere, in a role that no other person on the planet could have ever played. His acting in it reminds me of the simple greatness of Abbey Road. A true master deftly practicing his craft. I think on how glad I am to have grown up along with his gifts.

He's had many many other lessons for many many other people. Movies and shows that others connected we more, or needed more. And there were times when he was far too much for me. But there was always something special about him. His smile and his laugh seemed to have it all over us. Part of me is simply hollow at the manner and timing of his loss.

I work near the Public Gardens in Boston, and I often take lunch there. Today I had to get somewhere, but decided to head in to the park to sit for a spell. I can never remember which bench his iconic scene with young Matt Damon was, but I always think of it when I am there. The park holds a lot of real memories for me, and I spend time with most of them when I visit, but that one has sneaked in to the cannon. The real memories all involve friends of mine from various stages of life. Maybe that's why he was able to elbow his way in. He has always been around. Like many friends, sometimes we were close, and sometimes we were distant, but I managed to learn something from him.

Now, I'm 40. Depression is something I have struggled with, and helped others with. I know people who have felt shame, or embarrassment about asking for help with it. If you are one of those people please remember that this man, this man who was known the world over for sharing the joys and depths of the human experience with us all, he was unable to beat depression alone. Get help. Stay here. We need you.