Tuesday, February 14, 2012

a matter of perspective (m)

I loved Whitney Houston's music.  I have the album with her on the cover in a sarong sitting in front of an orange background.  It is iconic.  I could not have survived the drek that passed for music in the '80's without Whitney's gorgeous voice and beautiful lyrics and melody.  I cried when I saw The Bodyguard.  They said that Princess Diana actually approached someone in Hollywood to make a second version of that movie starring herself.  That would have been a dream come true for me.

We were at Sam's school for his hockey game on Sunday when my husband checked his phone and passed along the news of her death.  Shocked but not surprised was the reaction.  "How did she die?" everyone asked.

Drugs, we all assumed.

On Monday, more details emerged.  I won't go into them here as I'm sure you've heard them.  I was horrified.

On Tuesday morning, Lyn calls me.  She just heard that Whitney Houston's family eschewed a big, public funeral in LA and brought her body back to her hometown of Newark, New Jersey.  This bothers Lyn to no end.   "Promise me you won't bring my body back to Brockton when I die."  That for Lyn would, indeed, be a fate worse than death--for this New Yorker to be permanently entombed in the blue-collar town where she grew up.

Me: What do you want me to do?  Scatter you on the Hudson River?
Lyn: Oh I don't know...just not Brockton, okay?
Me: Okay...we'll put you somewhere in the Atlantic, maybe on the Cape.

Where they bury me does not concern me. .
 What concerns me is being found naked.

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