New York City. 1983.
I opened the heavy door to the respectable five-story building, the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel. I was met by a young man in a dark suit. He looked distracted.
“Are you here to see Mr. Williams?” he asked.
I said yes.
“Take the elevator to the second floor.”
I was the only one at that moment next to his coffin. I spoke to him.
“Tennessee, thank you for everything you gave us. Thank you for Streetcar. Thank you for Glass Menagerie. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for everything you wrote. You were a great artist.”
I wished he could hear me, somehow. I felt less secure in the world now.
“Goodbye,” I said. I absurdly thought he might reply in his famous deep lilting cadence.
I turned and walked away from this momentous death.