In a rambling dinner conversation, Burt’s favorite aide [and mine] and I inevitably spoke of him.
His idiosyncracies over the rules of laundry and eager attendance to the mailbox were still part of daily living when she began. Only toward the end, in the last few months, did Burt think I was just never here.
My absence [even fictional as it was] distresses me. As it must have him. He felt abandoned, I’ll warrant, and I will try to make amends to the soul who lingers in my memory.
We spoke of him with the fondness of familiarity [which I affirm does not breed contempt]. We realized that his final downfall was quick. Percipitous.
We agreed that we miss his humor and some of those idiosyncracies of his.
this is our life 