The Dearly Departed

I miss my daughter sometimes more than others, and hearing of David Bowie's death made today one of those times.
This isn't one of those "poor me" essays. Death is part of life, and I don't want any sympathy. What I want is to say there are times when we'd really like to talk to someone, but that someone is dead. It's a weird feeling, like not being able to finish a task you really need to do.
My daughter was a HUGE Bowie fan. I can't tell you how many times I watched Labyrinth and listened to "Let's Dance" in the '80s. Like a lot of working moms, I wasn't that tuned in, but it was nice to have things we could talk about without me cringing or her rolling her eyes. I was okay with David, Adam Ant, and George Michael, because I liked (most of) their music and understood that their oddness appealed to girls of her age.
When I heard this morning that Bowie died, I wanted to call my daughter and talk about it. I can imagine what she'd say and what I'd say.
I just can't do it.
Like many people, I often wish I could talk to my dad or my mom sometimes. Most days I go for a walk on the property we own, which used to be theirs, and I recall talking to Dad about how much we both loved every square inch of it. And my mom--if only she could hear about my next book!
As I said, you don't have to feel bad for me because I've lost people, and I'm not going to give you that old stuff about telling them you love them before it's too late. In the first place, they know, and in the second, you can't build "I love you" stacks to use up later as you need them.
Today's essay is simply an observation: I miss my dearly departed more at certain
times, and it's usually when there's a conversation I'd like to have that only they would really understand.


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