I just wanted to write something for you, not only because your death affected me more than my own father’s, but also as an apology from one of the many voyeurs into your private life.
Every newscaster has dragged out the Dictionary of Clichés to talk her/his way through your life: “train wreck of a life,” “famous for being famous,” and “not so much a ‘candle in the wind’ as a matchstick in a hurricane.” But you were more than all that. You were human after all.
You were an angel-bunny sent to teach us about our own shortcomings and to remind us of the seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, and avarice, etc. etc. And let’s not forget envy.
You performed your celebrity duties with a sense of humor, slurring and stumbling your way into our homes. It was hard not to laugh. And the lesson you taught—that it’s no less difficult to be a punch-line than a punching-bag—will stay with us for a long time.
You were a devoted mother, and we shared in the tragic loss of your son, just as we shared in your daughter’s tragic loss of a mother mere weeks later.
If I were a praying man, I’d pray for your soul. And for the lives of those you left behind. For her, for him (and him, and him, and him, etc. etc.). But instead I can only offer one final cliché: rest in peace.
Nothing abides. Nothing is lost.