It's two p.m. in the Bearsville Theatre in Woodstock, December 15, 1999. There's a line snaked out in the parking lot and people are waiting in the rain, but I'm sitting in the back of the theatre, doing my best to cry softly when what I want to do is totally break down. I'm not supposed to be here, and if I'd stood in line with the rest of the crowd, I never would have gotten in. I'm grateful that Robbie made arrangements so I could get into Rick's memorial so I'm going to behave myself for him.
I see people that I know from the studio. Eric Clapton and George Harrison have flown here from England, Dylan's here, which shouldn't surprise me, Rick played with him before the Band broke. I see my friend Bob Weir; he just got married, but he smiles at me and it helps to lift me up. "He wouldn't want you to cry now," his eyes say, "He'd want you to remember all the good things."
Robbie turns to look at me, and I nod. Maybe I'm strong enough to be here after all.
I can't believe Rick is dead. I caught up with him on his last tour and we spent the final days together before he had to go home. It was hard, watching him and worrying about him. He didn't feel good enough to have sex, but we were together and that was all that mattered.
I didn't know it would be the last time I saw him alive.
I was the secret he kept for almost twenty-five years. Each minute I spent with him was stolen, precious, and something to be cherished. Being the lover of a married man is hard, especially one whose wife held onto him so tightly, but I was willing. He felt guilty about being with me, about my being with him, but we loved each other and somehow, we managed to make it work.
What am I going to do now? I'm forty-seven and I feel like I'm too old to fall in love again. Besides, how can I find someone who loved me the way he did? And he did love me, maybe too much. Who cares if I was the other woman, I was his other woman. We had our ups and downs, but we stuck it out. You don't have to be a wife to be loved, to be in a loving relationship.
I still can't believe it's been twenty-five years.
RIP Rick Danko: Forever young, forever loved