The world first heard you
as a ripple—
a tremor of mischief
moving through a room
too certain of itself.
You had the rare gift
of standing at the edge of a scene
and tilting it—
just enough—
so that dignity slid toward absurdity
and absurdity found its heart.
How lightly you carried grandeur.
How deftly you unpinned vanity
from its stiff collar
and let it wander,
barefoot and blinking,
into something human.
In your hands, comedy was not a weapon
but a lantern.
You lifted it beneath the chin of pretense,
not to mock the face above it,
but to show the soft places
we all share.
Mothers misplaced their composure,
socialites misplaced their certainty,
wives misplaced their scripts—
and in the losing,
found themselves.
You taught us that foolishness
is often a corridor
to tenderness.
There are actors who chase applause.
You seemed to chase truth,
even when it wore sequins,
even when it trembled
on the brink of farce.
Now the soundstage is quieter.
The air no longer anticipates
that perfectly measured pause—
the half-beat before a confession,
the sidelong glance
that rewrote a scene.
We do not grieve only a performer,
but a particular warmth:
that sly, generous intelligence
that let us laugh at ourselves
without flinching.
If there is a theater beyond this one,
may it be ready
for your entrance—
unhurried, unannounced—
carrying nothing
but that unmistakable light
that could turn
even excess
into grace.