This week has been rather tearful.
On Monday, I got a text from my husband telling me that David Bowie was dead.
Plenty has been written about him, with much more eloquence than I can manage, but he was a lifelong presence in my world. He was one of the earliest singers I could recognize by voice, because his was so distinctive. Like many other girls my age, I fell a little bit in love with his Goblin King. As I matured, I came to appreciate his work with more depth. I was inspired by his artistry and awed by his creativity. I was delighted by his brief appearances as Andy Warhol or Nikola Tesla in films where I wasn't expecting to see him. His music never failed to impress me or move me, even if I didn't particularly care for a given song.
But I never knew him. Never had the pleasure of seeing him perform live. No actual connection between us.
Yet I weep. For his wife and family. For those who did know and love him and have now lost him. Out of gratitude for the sheer enormity of his legacy. What an artist.
And then Alan Rickman died. He was the same age as Bowie (69) and had also been fighting cancer.

So here I am, in the same week, crying over the loss of yet another brilliant Brit. My thoughts are with their families, and I'm so grateful to have "known" them.
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