Dear Robin

Dear Robin

When I was a child, I was too young to understand when my parents would take a moment of silence to respect and remember a soul recently lost, belonging to a person that touched their lives in a special way, even if they hadn’t ever known them personally.

My mother read all she could about the tragic loss of Princess Diana, she even bet an astounding amount of money (and won) a Ty beanie baby collector’s item named for her at an auction. It isn’t worth nearly the quantity she paid, but still sits at her desk at home, originally bought for me,I returned it, knowing it would mean a lot more to her.

I recall sitting with my father at the bar at Lazlo’s to hear the breaking news that George Harrison had passed away. The news report played, my dad stared at the screen stony faced with a beer in hand rarely raised to his lips, too many thoughts processing this loss of one of the Beatles, a band he loved, to be bothered to pay much attention to it. 

As I grew, my realization of my own mortality became clear; no one lived forever. It was a grim and bitter pill, and as a worrisome person, I couldn’t dwell on it too much. When the fact that I was to one day cease to exist first sucker punched me, I searched with desperation for a remedy, and took a page out of my father’s book by using humor. I still shed tears, but they were paired with gasping for air because I had found something that had me laughing so hard, I couldn’t breathe. The euphoric, supernova-like explosion of pure, concentrated happiness could blow the most negative of thoughts out of the water. I could usually treat the run-of-the-mill blues with the comics in the newspaper, a comedy or listening to parodies (Weird Al, thank you). When I was stricken with something much more serious though, I turned to Robin.

Watching a drama-tinged, comedy classic featuring a cross-dressing nanny that was a devoted father in disguise, taught me as I watched my parents drift apart and ultimately divorce, that while things were, and never would be, the same, there is still always love, there is still deep rooted connection that cannot be broken. For “if there's love, dear, those are the ties that bind. And you'll have a family in your heart forever.” It gave me hope, to hear that man speak in that sweet old British lady tone. The vacuum scene set to Aerosmith was pretty killer too. I was your “poppet”. Thank you for that.

Observing with wonder as a bionic man became more capable of living life to the fullest and feeling it’s strongest sensations and emotions, was magical to me. Your love for Little Miss, for accepting the flaws of others(who you would think WERE cold, heartless robots) your relentless pursuit to come to their aid and desire to experience what they could, so as to understand them better, was awe-inspiring.

Your riveting push to “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may” was the shove I needed as I blossomed into a awkward adolescent, still scared shitless by my lack of confidence in myself, too afraid to “Carpe Diem” due to the growing list of fears I was coming to realize with age, and the curtain of my little world being lifted to reveal that the world was bigger, darker and unknown to me. I was developing my poetic voice, the churning desire to stand on the nearest (stable) piece of furniture and let out my own barbaric YAWP was felt as you encouraged your students to rip out the guidelines in their own stories they had been following all their lives, to speak their passions with abandon and without hesitation, and face their fears, whether it was acting against their parents wishes, or simply flinging their lame birthday gifts into a river below, to be celebrated with laughter, as it should be.

Robin, you were as complex as the array of characters you so elegantly and poignantly portrayed. I cannot imagine what it must have felt like to be able to light up a room, but be in the dark, to bring laughter, but have it be absent or ring hollow in your own heart. You were a living paradox that the source of happiness to many could be from someone experiencing the deepest depths of loneliness and despair. I can’t say that I played this role in your shoes, but I know someone who did, the man responsible for introducing me to you in the first place; my dad.

My father loved you. Goofy and kid friendly, or put-the-kids-to-bed crude, you brought a smile to his face, tears to his eyes, and light when he needed to see the good in life that simultaneously blocked the blunt unpleasantries of his own depression with it’s blinding radiance. He too was gone too soon from this Earth, a son, a husband, a father, a friend, an extraordinary person, my comfort is that the two of you can now meet Above, where I pray you will be filled with all the peace and comfort you gave to those of us here on Earth. 

My children in this moment are still in infancy. As a child myself, you were my equivalent to Diana and to George; the first to come to mind as being a true loss to me and to the world when you would come to pass (much much too soon). The loss I feel is something they are, as I was was, unable to understand at the moment. I know there will never be anyone quite like you, but my hope is that they too will have the blessing of sitting with mom and watching Mr. Williams, whether he's making us laugh by dunking his face in a cake for a makeshift mask, or cry by telling us how love, poetry and art are things that make life worth living.

For all you did for all of us who have and will always admire you, from the tender more serious cinematic moments that touched our hearts, to the raving antics of comic standup that had you guzzling the equivalent of 8 bottles of water, we are grateful. We are inspired.

You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it.” 

Thank you for being that spark. It will never be lost.