It leaves halfway through November. The last pieces required for my Irish passport are coming together. The utilities are now in David’s name. An ad for my room is going up on Craigslist this week. I don’t know where I’m going to live. I don’t have reliable work. There is no safety net. And, if I get this right, I’ll never be back again.
Stephen Elliott, the closest thing I ever had to an adopted father, passed away on the morning of September 1st.
I was at Burning Man, so could not be bedside. I also missed his memorial. Yesterday would have been his 67th birthday. I do not feel guilt or regret, only grief.
It was a privilege to know him and to receive a small part of his generosity, cleverness, and joy. Somewhere there is a video of him playing Spanish guitar at one of my birthday parties, as pictured above, but that doesn’t capture his vivaciousness or his overwhelming wonderful everything. They don’t make them like they used to. He was quality and charm and grace personified, as well as the best sort of sly English wit. I don’t know what else to say, except that he was loved, and is loved, and will always be so in my heart. My sympathies and condolences to everyone else currently grieving. He was prolific with his care, there are so many of us who will forever miss him, and we are all worse off for the loss.