I left last night's viewing absolutely drained. A day later I still want to hide under my covers, the same way Glinda Dragon is hiding in her cave -- perhaps poke my head out every now and again, but for the most part, stay hidden until I deem it safe to come out.
Dearly departed Ed was someone I knew in passing from high school, and someone Don recently met through theater. He played Ernie the Cab Driver in Somerset Valley Players "It's a Wonderful Life."
Last week Debbi called me to tell me she was shaken by his death. Ed shared an apartment with her during her senior year of college. I told Don. Between the two of us we sort of came up with a face to go with the three decades old memory.
The next day, visibly shaken, Don walked up to me and told me that Ed had died. I told him, I was the one who told him. Its just that, at the time we did not make the connection that Debbi's Ed and Don's Ed were the same person. In hindsight, I don't know how we missed it. Ed still had his trademark moustache three decades later.
I saw Ed a month ago on stage. We passed by each other afterwards at the Opening Night party. We didn't recognize each other. We didn't acknowledge each other. We were strangers to each other.
That's why I was surprised by how much his death gutted me.
Ed was a little older than I am. A year younger than Don.
Ed left behind a wife and a college-aged daughter.
He was healthy at the end of the show's run on December 17th. Had a bad cold a week later. And died before New Year's Eve.
The funeral parlor room was packed with theater friends, plus Debbi and her college friends. Felt like parts of my life colliding.
A sharp lesson in mortality.
As always, writing about it helps me feel a little better.
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