As Whitney Houston keeps dying on TV, I am transfixed by envy, bitterness, and grief.
Her narrative has been transformed from the tragic untimely death of a dope addict to an adoring farewell to an angel. And why not? She was a person, not just a joke about crack.
I can’t help thinking about Max’s burial and the service we had at the grave. Just a small gathering of people in shock, numb or sobbing. Those who could speak talked about what Max was like and what they would miss. We shoveled some dirt and someone threw in a guitar pick. A moment later, nearly every man present stepped forward to throw in a pick. With the exception of me, we are a tribe of musicians.
Where was the big choir singing about taking him home? It isn’t fair.
I don’t believe in god but I wish I could hear about how He was waiting to hold Max in His loving arms.
This is what you get for being an unbeliever. My husband told me that I could believe in god “if I wanted to.” I find this a preposterous notion. I do want to! Look how comforting it is for believers.
I want a church full of black Baptists, and I want them to sing their asses off, to testify that Max is an angel who was called home. I miss him every moment that I am conscious. I try to be conscious as little as possible. I’m pretty sure that he hated Whitney’s music but he loved a good wailing gospel tune.
Maybe I can arrange something for his birthday in March. I don’t know if my heart is up to it. I’m not through with denial.
Let us play Omelette and let us say amen.