A Short Letter to Hitch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Hitch,

Today I was reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair and I couldn’t help but notice that you were missing from the pages. Perhaps the impact of your death hasn’t hit me until now, until I realised at that moment that I was no longer going to able to read your elegant, witty words again.

You could have stuck around for another twenty years at least; you would have been in your eighties, still battling against injustice in this world with style and finesse. I would be in my forties, still struggling as a writer perhaps, or maybe I would be a mum with four kids, keeping my writing as a small hobby in between wiping poo and cooking. I can imagine that even then, as an adult, I would still be sad to hear you’ve passed. You’ve been taken from us too early. What an awful cliché, I know, but that’s how I feel.

I often wonder if you hadn’t smoked and drunk your way through your life and your prolific career, your words wouldn’t have been so brilliantly perfected. You once said that you wouldn’t change anything so much, because the drink and smokes were companions to your writing. Albeit without them, you might have stuck around a bit longer.

Everything you’ve written has always moved me. Your words have given me massive inspiration and hope for what I want to achieve in this bleak world. And I suppose I want to thank you for that. I admire you. Or should that be, I admired you?

I often ponder what you would say about everything that has changed since you died. The war, the bloodshed, the inhumanity. I don’t agree with you on everything you asserted, but you were mighty convincing. Were. It’s odd that I have to keep reminding myself to write in the past tense about you.

I resent the void you’ve left in my favourite literary magazine. I hope you know how many people you’ve affected, how many lives you’ve changed by your words. Also, how many people you’ve affected by leaving the party so soon.

I sincerely hope that when you were alive, you knew how loved and admired you were.

My imaginary-friend, Hitch. There has to be some sort of irony there.

That’s about it then.

Kind regards,

Cass

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