When I learned that writer Annie Dillard died, I did something I haven’t done since my dad died four years ago. I knelt on the floor and cried.
I’m embarrassed to admit this. Dillard was not a relative of mine, not a steadfast friend. We exchanged letters once, decades ago, but we never spoke, never bonded over a cup of coffee. What exactly was I mourning as tears fell onto my jeans?
I first encountered Dillard’s writing in 1994, as a seventh grader at writing camp. I had applied because my childhood best friend, who was a few years older than me, said living away from home came with the perk of unlimited ice cream.
