If you had told me yesterday that I would cry at the news of Anne McCaffrey's death, I would have been surprised.
I read her, of course. Didn't we all? It seems to me that anyone in my generation who read any science fiction or fantasy read Anne McCaffrey. And some of her books I truly loved - I read Dragonsong quite literally to pieces, and loved the rest of the Harper Hall trilogy, as well. Menolly is still on my list of favorite heroines. And I have a particular fondness for Black Horses for the King, which lives on the shelf of my comfort books downstairs.
I read her, I loved her, but I outgrew her. Sometimes we do - we cannot always take the pieces of our childhood with us into adulthood. It does not mean they meant any less to us, then.
But the world has been hard, lately, and cold. Still, as the news of McCaffrey's death spread tonight, I watched as all of us who read her mourned, and shared their memories of what they loved best. In the sadness of the loss, the world became a little smaller, a little more connected. And so I cried, because I didn't realize until now that not only had Anne McCaffrey given us stories, she had given us each other as well, one more tremendous gift in the wake of her passing.
So thank you, Anne McCaffrey. Thank you. The harpers will always sing your name.