It’s true, I guess. 
Frank McCourt has moved on. I have been waiting to hear the punch-line, as I have so many times before, delivered by his brother, Malachy,
as the two of them stand on stage, inciting laughter from their audience.
Angela’s Ashes
is one of my all-time favorite books. I suppose that’s because we have a shared history. The voice in my head, as I read his words, was that of my grandmother’s as she recounted her own grandfather’s tales of Irish woes.
Frank had a way of turning tragedy into triumph, a triumph of words. I was fortunate to meet him several times and he never disappointed me as I waited for the sparkle in his eyes and his dry, wry wit.
It is said that we all have at least one book in us. Frank had three, so far, delivered. I’m sure he’ll be writing the rest from above. As they say in Ireland: May God not weaken your hand.
Slainte.