"He died last night."

I feel like a big old silly, but I tear up over and over again every time they say on NPR "He died last night." I didn't want him to die! I loved the old fart, warts and all, and I wanted him to see us get health care reform of some kind before he died.

Joyce Carol Oates wrote a little novel about Chappaquiddick, thinly disguised, from the point of view of the young woman in the car. Listening to the audiobook while driving, I abruptly found myself no longer on the highway but speeding through a copper mine. That's how riveting the story was. Backtracking, I discovered I had sped blindly past wildly flashing red lights, and I met a state police car on my way out after apologizing to the flustered gatekeeper. That's my most personal memory of Ted Kennedy.