My mom was at our house the day David
Bowie died. I went down to the guest room to tell her after seeing the news on CNN. It was early morning.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed. She woke up and removed her sleep
apnea mask, asking me,
"What's wrong, Baby?"
her face filling with concern as tears silently rolled down my cheeks and my face folded inward as I leaned in, losing it. She struggled to sit up and give me her attention.
"What's wrong, Baby?"
"Mommy, David Bowie DIED!" and I let it go, all the messy bawling. And
she pulled me close to her chest and said,
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, ohhhh, I am so
so sorry." She stroked the back of my head and
let me cry and cry and cry and cry.
Then Rx got in bed with us and we all three hugged. Rx, a little confused but at the ready with empathy,
"I'm so sorry your friend died, mommy," she said
.
Yes, my friend. My friend who got me through it! Through being 13! 14! 15! Through feeling hated! And ugly! And stupid! And different! Through high school, what a nightmare! And into college, great times! And on my own, and when I moved to the City and saw his show at Kezar Stadium and he was so happy, he smiled the whole time and
gave the goodness away—just like that! And then when I got married, and the period after that when I listened to
Let's Dance every morning while getting dressed, when I still had a record player, well into my 30s.
After arriving at work, I was in the kitchen putting my frozen Atkins food
away when I felt someone walk in quickly and stand right next to
me abruptly. It was
Buddy System.
He had tears in his eyes and so did I. We both knew.
We stared at each other for a
beat, two beats, and then I hugged him. A good hug. He hugged back and
we just felt sad together for a minute, then parted. The pools in our eyes broke and rolled down our faces and we were silent. Neither of us said
anything.
Nothing at all.
He walked away and went upstairs. I closed the fridge door, listening to it suction back together.
