Sing with the angels, Dan.
I know I've been incommunicado for a while, it's just that time of year when there are not enough days in the week, hours in the day, or minutes in the hour, but I had to take some time for this.
On Sunday we lost Dan Fogelberg. He was a poet who set his words to music. He's been a part of my life since 1978, when a friend from college introduced me to his music. He's comforted me, excited me, showed me love and strength and pain and loss. His music has been the backdrop to my life since first I heard him sing.
I've gone to concerts, joined fan clubs, written notes of support when he announced he was suffering from prostate cancer, and this morning, I had to write a note of condolence to his family. I know it was the right thing to do. I know, having lost many special people in my life, that knowing how others loved him will help his wife. But that note of condolence? It helped me, too.
I cried yesterday. I cried for him. For his wife. For his family. And I cried for me. I cried because there will never be a minute I can hope and pray he will recover. There will never be another concert, or another new CD. As selfish as that sounds, he has brought me such joy through his words and his music that I am diminished with his passing. I have lost something and someone so special, so much a part of me.
When I hear Leader of the Band, I think of my dad. When I hear A Love Like This, I think of my husband (this was our wedding song). When I hear Auld Lang Syne, I think of all those many people who used to be a part of my life, who are gone, in any definition of the word.
When I listen to his music, I think that he wrote for an orchestra, but he played it on a guitar. His acoustical tour was incredible. To see him sitting on the stage with a guitar, just a guitar, to hear that music, and that voice. Incredible.
I have a funny feeling that every CD I listen to for the foreseeable future will be his. And I have a funny feeling that I will love every note and every word even more.