I took for granted that I would see Whitney Houston with greying temples commanding the stage as an elegantly dressed septuagenarian. It was a no-brainer that I would hear her unique, textured speaking voice in an interview as she made witty and slightly irreverent jokes while she bounced a fat, happy grandbaby on her lap and hummed a lullaby on the fly. I just knew she would sing at the (far in the future) funeral for Aretha Franklin.
Given the troubles she’s had over the past decade or two, it’s not exactly surprising that Whitney Houston died young, but my goodness it hurt. And I’m just a fan, we’re not even related. Never met the woman. Never saw her perform live.
When I read that she died, I somehow felt like I lost something/someone. Almost like she was some crazy, beautiful, distant relative I didn’t get to talk to enough and she died before I got to tell her how much she meant to me and how awesome she was.
I miss her.
I got chills when I read about her untimely demise and I’ve cried several times since then when I watched old interviews that showcased her bubbly personality or videos where she was so full of life and energy and passion.
She should be here.
And can we talk about that voice? Oh, the voice. She could go from the church to the project stairwell to the top of the pop charts in one note. Babygirl had an undeniable gift.
Drugs are terrible.
If there is something to learn from Whitney Houston’s death it is about how important it is to take care of yourself. It’s literally a matter of life and death. Any poison in your life–whether that is a person, a drug, a lack of adequate sleep or poor dental health–needs to be eradicated. Pronto.
Be good to you.
I wish nothing but peace, stability and happiness for Ms. Houston’s daughter. You have millions of cheerleaders, young lady.