hantsbear | Bitter Suite

Three years ago, I was in Tucson - I think it was a Thursday; various parties were being organised to local restaurants for the early arrivers at Fiesta de los Osos. It must have been about 6pm - I had gone back to my hotel room for whatever reason and I checked my computer and found a message from

madamemish to contact her as soon as possible. The transatlantic phone call that followed started something like this:-

"Mish?"
"He's gone." (sob)
"What? Who...?"
"Russ. He's dead." There was a pause. Then I howled.

The circumstances have been documented elsewhere, but at that moment in time I felt disconnected; hit by the full force of the distance between here and there. There was only one thing I could do under that circumstance; I rang my father. I needed the familiar.

I must have been in my room quite a while; when I re-emerged, I remember the first person to see me was

shelbycub . I'm not sure whether I just hugged him or blurted out what had happened.

Fast forward three years; it still hurts. Which is good in it's own way. Have asked Steve to take me to the grave the weekend after next. I'll be a mess, but I think I need to be a mess.