Sunday, July 21, 1996

Memory: Robin Williams


I'm sitting on a couch in Amsterdam watching David Letterman's guest, a former love of mine, not a lover. That came later. How I loved him, still seeing him at age 19, love without words, without conversation.

At a party in Tiburon, he sat alone by the fireplace. The others all cozied up for the night. A cast party for Twelfth Night, I believe. I was the wardrobe mistress.

Just to be close to him, I toiled over the sewing machine to make costumes. They were so good that they went on to Scotland that summer for the Shakespeare Festival in Edinburgh.

Ah, Robin, that Malvolio of crossed garters. My young love, whom I followed across the campus as you did your silly walks, wearing little more than a green gym shorts and a woman's bathing cap with a strap dangling like a limp worm.

Ah Robin, once I knew you well, and I can't help but look at your face on the telly, those lips I once wanted to kiss, what but was too shy to let you know. And you wanted me too. We circled each other like moths to the flame, singeing our wings, and retreating off into the night. The danger, too present.

Once we met years later, you took me into your arms, sweating after performance at the Greek Theater, thousands of screaming fans. And held me close until I nearly suffocated. I lost your address on purpose. I couldn't reconcile the idol you had become with the young love.

Now at age 43, I contemplate my lost youth. For what it's worth. Wondering where you are, where you've gone off to, behind that mask. So strange to be thinking of you while sitting on a couch in Amsterdam. So far from home. So far from me.

7/21/1996
added 10/2015


Robin Williams' Magic Mirror
Robin Spotting
Dream: Robin Williams

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