Mark has passed, they tell me.
And yet I cannot mourn him. I can be sad for myself, selfish as that seems, but not for him. Sad because I won’t be able to shake his hand when next I’m in California, or see that twinkle in his eyes, that nod when he touched the side of his nose as if to say, “you and I – we get it.”
But not sad for him. We have lost something; he has not. As joyous a man as he was on this side, his happiest moments here are as nothing to the joy of where he is now. And while I can’t see him for a while, someday we will all see that our time in this world was a blink compared to our real lives.
That’ll be a laugh.
I can’t recall when I first met Mark; it seemed he was always there, like the mountains that surrounded the Agoura Faire and as strong as they. Later – 1987, it would have been - after the Faire moved to Devore he attended my first performance of “Torna’s Harp” there in the McGarry’s booth. I can see him now, candle-lit, in the back row pounding his knees in excitement at a part of the story that he particularly liked.
He was one of those people who will build you up all the time and never do the slightest thing to lessen you.
I don’t know what caused his body to fall away from him, but I know this: he knew that he was loved by hundreds and admired by thousands; he had the comfort of knowing that he was living right.
And he still is.