Five minutes ago, I was all set and ready to write a blog post about Shark Week, Ravenclaw socks, and new reviews. Now, I’m sitting here in shock, reeling from the news headline that just flashed across my television screen.
Robin Williams found dead.
It’s weird. Actors and musicians I’ve loved before have died, but none has hit so close to home as the death of the beloved Mrs. Doubtfire, Patch Adams, and Genie.
My generation grew up with Robin Williams. He was simultaneously the funniest guy you could think of and the guy who could make you cry with a single scene. It didn’t matter who you were. Everyone had seen at least one Robbin Williams movie. And everyone loved him.
Right now, I have my favorite movie scenes playing in my head. I see a zany professor dancing around with his bouncing green Flubber. I hear a familiar voice serenading the fabulous Prince Ali Ababwa. I see an ambitious medical student, holding a dying man’s hand, and singing about blue skies. I see a ten-year-old boy in a 40-year-old’s body gazing in awe at a new butterfly. I see young Ethan Hawke standing on a desk, declaring, “Oh Captain, my Captain.” And I’m trying not to cry.
The world wasn’t ready to say goodbye to you, Robin. And neither was I.