Kurt Vonnegut looked old. He shuffled by my booth at the antiques show, eyes bleary, a bit of the ancient walrus about him. A walrus in a rumpled London Fog, neither stylish nor especially interesting. I had only rhinestone jewelry to offer. Not walrus fodder at all and he moved on. It was he, all right. And he was it. I began rereading his works that night.
Vonnegut has now been dead for two years. How did I not know this? Why was I not summoned? In my egocentric universe all those I have revered --- some shyly, some more blatantly --- maintain themselves on this planet in their respective roles attendant to my needs alone and I am confronted by my own mortality when one of them is so disloyal as to die.
I wish Vonnegut had purchased a whimsical rhinestone pin. I would have given him such a deal.
Causes Mara Buck Supports
Kennebec Valley Humane Society, Amnesty International