"It was a quiet morning, the town covered over with darkness and at ease in bed. Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow. You had only to rise, lean from your window, and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning of summer." -From Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury

On the cusp of summer, I spent the last two days buried in my work - preparing my classroom for the end of the school year, packing all of the books away, and tidying the shelves. While I was in limbo, someone very important to me passed away. Not a relative or even a personal friend, he impacted my life much as a beloved uncle. Mr. Ray Bradbury, you have been my favorite author since I was eight, when I discovered your soulful, poetic stories. Your books opened a world of imagination and wonder. Sometimes they frightened me as they plumbed the depths of the evil and goodness inherent in humanity. The food for thought you provided was just as important as the nourishment given my corporeal self. Your writing kindled my imagination and imbued me with a love of words and tales. I have shared that love as an elementary school teacher for over thirty years. Just today as I was packing up my classroom, I found a copy of Dandelion Wine on my bookshelf. Feeling it too mature for my students, I brought the tattered, well-used (and loved) paperback home tonight, and have been re-reading contentedly. The artful beauty of your writing cushioned me from the shock of seeing the announcement of your passing just now and left me with an ineffable sense of awe at the fact that the book found its way to my hands just before I learned of your death. Enjoy your place in Paradise, dear Author. You will have a permanent place of honor in the hearts and minds of those who discover your wonderful words. I am left with a sense of profound loss: not because you have moved on to a well-earned rest, but because your presence no longer graces the planet.

“...And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn’t crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the backyard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man..." Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)

Summer won’t be the same without you: you were a part of me from childhood and your words will always remain within me