Back in June, I imagine Seamus Heaney was vexed over the thought of a world without Mandela. I think we all were. I remember my husband and I talking about his charisma, the “Madiba magic” that changed the world. We were sad that Mandela’s time with us was coming to an end, and I remember turning to the poetry of Seamus Heaney, the way I always do in times of sorrow.
And now, just six months later, I am writing that Nelson Mandela is gone. Seamus Heaney is gone. My husband is gone. Gone. All three gone too quickly. Like shooting stars.