My God—my heart is absolutely broken over the death of Whitney Houston. Just… broken. To consider that this songbird, this lead actress in some of my favorite films, this woman, this daughter, this mother—this icon whom I absolutely idolized as a young woman—is gone from here is almost too much to bear.
I struggle with the words. But I do have the memories. They come in snippets… me spending my Friday nights down in the basement of my childhood home, my mother’s turkey baster in my hand, staring at MTV and rocking out to “How Will I Know,” and “Saving All My Love For You,” imagining myself singing them to my crush… me standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching my mother run her fingers through her brownish red curls and thinking she was Whitney’s twin… me and my girls coming back from seeing The Bodyguard, so excited that she’d slayed it in a movie that, to this day, I still watch when it’s on TV… me getting absolutely amped to see her and Angela Bassett and Loretta Divine and Lela Rochon breathe film life into one of my favorite books, “Waiting To Exhale”—and putting black women on the silver screen in a big way… me being just a wee-bit jealous that she’d nabbed Bobby Brown, one of the favorite guys from my favorite childhood boy group, New Edition… me watching her power through Chaka’s “I’m Every Woman” in that beautiful video and thinking, “Yeah, Whitney—sing that song!” and feeling inspired… me kicking off every Christmas season with my babies by pumping up the volume on our Christmas mix, which always leads off with Whitney’s version of “Joy To the World,” from the soundtrack of The Preacher’s Wife.
We all loved Whitney. Had so many reasons to. Wanted her to kick those demons in the ass. To come back to us, stronger, better. Healed. And new.
But now, she is gone from here.
Fly with the angels, Whitney Houston. What a day of rejoicing it will be when you get to Heaven.