Whitney Houston’s death

When I was teenager, I really wanted to sing.  At the time, singing with lots of what I called musical frills (because I knew ever so much about technique) was big.  This was at the height of Whitney Houston’s popularity and her songs were everywhere.  One of my happier moments was when I managed to get my mom to buy I’m Your Baby Tonight on tape.  I would sing along with her, trying to sound just as strong and hit the notes just as well as she did.

I absolutely loved her voice.  I wanted to sound just as amazing as she did.

About a year or so into college, I decided I would rather spend more time writing than singing.  I had become a prima donna about it, and a tad delusional about my ability.  I realized I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.  So, I switched majors, then got married, had kids, and found I really had to choose between the two.  Writing won.

I heard rumblings through the haze of those early married years of her struggles.  I cringed when I saw that YouTube clip of her trying to sing after her Oprah interview.  I actually got ticked when I heard her give that lame excuse about talking too much in her interview the day before.  Later clips from her concerts confirmed what I knew.  Her voice was gone.  Nothing to do now but try to rebuild.  I was hoping she would because a voice that amazing is a terrible thing to lose.  But she would adapt and once she became comfortable with the voice she now had, I knew I would start buying her albums again.  Maybe even start singing along with them again.

And now she’s gone.  I feel like part of my past has died with her.  All I can do is write this lame excuse for a memorial.

R.I.P. Whitney.

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