Well, it’s been just over a year, and Terry has yet to re-appear in a Windle Poons manner. I think I have to accept that Death actually collected him, empty lifetimer in one hand, scythe in the other, and brought him off to see the next chapter.
His daughter, Rhianna, has a lovely remembrance piece in the Guardian:
Dad was someone who committed to the narrative of a situation rather more than the practicality. So he would wrap me up and take me out of bed in the middle of the night to show me the glow-worms in the hedge or Halley’s Comet blazing across a star-filled sky. For him, his daughter seeing these marvels of nature was much more important than sleeping, which I could do any time. He didn’t teach me magic, he showed me it.
I owe both my father and my mother a huge debt of thanks for an idyllic childhood, one that’s helped me become the person I am today. One where I could be free to run around in nature, climb trees (and fall out of them) and to come to understand the wonders of the world – and of course to be able to milk goats in an emergency. I like to think that wherever Dad is now, there is a hat on his head, a stick in his hand and a whistle on his lips. There’s probably a cat about somewhere too. There should always be a cat.
And of course, his name will live on in the Clacks #GNUTerryPratchett (this server is a relay).