Lately I've been missing an old friend, the celebrated Old Man of the Mountain in New Hampshire's White Mountains.
Whenever I get a New Hampshire state quarter I feel this way, but most recently it's gone deeper and longer. Since he fell and I found out that there was no feasible way replace him -- as if that was really possible, anyway -- I've had this uneasy feeling that a milestone has passed on par with losing a loved one. When I think about Isaac Asimov's passing I feel much the same way. Much different than when I think about my dad dying and much different than mulling over the loss of my daughter. I guess mourning is as multi-faceted as love. Or like it is the same as love, but out of phase. Whatever it is, I miss my old friend.