I woke up earlier than usual this morning, probably because I went to be earlier than usual last night. It’s all part of Operation: Reboot, and while it’s been a challenging adjustment, it’s worth it.
I sat up in bed, next to both of my dogs who looked confused. Dad doesn’t get out of bed for at least another three hours. What’s going on? Marlowe made a curious sound. Seamus grunted and buried his face into the covers.
I got out of bed, and shuffled into the living room. Anne looked up at me from the couch and said, “David Bowie died.”
David Bowie died? That’s impossible. I must not be entirely awake.
“What?” I said.
“David Bowie died,” she said, tears in her eyes.
I took a moment to run those words, in that order, through my brain. “How?” I asked. It still didn’t make sense to me. Sure, I’d only been awake — and barely, at that — for two minutes, but even if I’d gotten the news in the middle of the day, I wouldn’t have believed it.
“He had cancer,” she said.
Cancer. Well, fuck.
“I … Jesus.” I leaned against the kitchen counter.
It’s three hours later, and I’m awake. I’ve been listening to Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane and Hunky Dory, and I still can’t believe this is real.
David Bowie isn’t a mortal like the rest of us. This doesn’t make sense. This isn’t possible.
