I have to laugh, because I’m not convinced the suns and moons that have replaced the signs of the zodiac had any less mystic significance to Prince.
The elevator where Prince’s body was found has been tastefully sealed off. As I pass it, I feel sadness but no sense of his spirit lingering there. If anything, I feel the distinct not there –ness of him—the same vacuum I felt when I held the urn containing Amiir’s ashes. I knew he was gone; I clung to it only because that was all I had.
ELEVATE
I smiled remembering how I felt the first time I saw that word on the wall. It was the perfect word for what he did to everything he touched, including me. It was the thing he desired most for himself: to elevate to a consciousness of bliss. Now there was no doubt in my mind that he had.
His office, which is now downstairs, has been left almost exactly as he left it, several style generations from what it was when he and I had our neighboring offices upstairs. It’s very global, Afro-chic meets psychedelic with a circular desk and purple phone. There’s a dinner table, because he liked to eat dinner without actually taking a dinner break. They left his stacks of CDs and papers and other items undisturbed, including an odd pair of shoes by a chair—like bowling shoes, but wedges—and on a credenza, there are several framed photos of family and friends, Larry’s family, children of staff members. Looking at their smiling faces, I wish I’d sent him a picture of Gia. I’m touched to see that he kept a well-worn book about Egypt close at hand, and for some reason, the little pet carrier we used for our cat Isis is still sitting in the corner.
It won’t be part of the tour, I’m told, but I have to insist on visiting the doves before I go. They spark a familiar conversation with me, cooing and bobbing as I approach their ornate cage. I wish I could take them with me. They love to be around people, so it’s good to know that soon people will be coming and going, keeping the birds entertained.
Before I leave the doves—and leave Paisley Park, perhaps for the last time—I lean in and whisper, “Have more babies.”
I’ve witnessed many beautiful things being created in the hours when everyone is asleep. At my house, it’s the only time that’s quiet. As I write this, it’s been six months since Prince’s death. For the most part, I’m finally able to keep it together when I hear his music, but some songs I’ll never be able to hear without weeping. Others have taken on an eerie aftertaste.
… if the elevator tries to take you down
go crazy, punch a higher floor
I try not to invest his lyrics with more meaning than he intended. Sometimes these were just words that rhymed. Some songs were written or pulled out of the vault to pay the bills. But most of the time, they were more than that. I feel a shiver of privilege whenever I get the private joke or hear a turn of phrase that originally came out of my own mouth. Sometimes, when I’m listening to a song I’ve heard a thousand times before, I hear him speaking to me as plainly as if he was lying next to me in bed.
To make you all smile:
Jan and Myra remain happily married, restoring my faith in love, marriage, and happily ever after. My parents remain happily re married—for the third time, having divorced each other twice. Manuela remarried, has two adorable daughters, and works hard to improve the lives of children through her nonprofit foundation. Sheila E and all the amazing people I worked with in New Power Generation continue to rock the world. I’m a little surprised that I haven’t bumped into Larry at any of the many events celebrating Prince’s life. I haven’t thought about him in years. And Larry… Larry is an amazing musician who’s lost a dear friend. I hope his faith brings comfort to him now, just as my faith brings comfort to me.
Gia started pre-K this year with a crisp little school uniform and a backpack full of socially responsible school supplies designed by Pharrell Williams.
“Don’t take my picture,” she frowned.
“I’m taking it.”
“Fine…”
I Instagrammed her little face and looked at it with tears in my eyes a hundred times before lunch. Yes, I am that mommy.
Late in the evening, Gia and I snuggle on the couch, watching TV. I’ve been meaning to show her Under the Cherry Moon. I still love the choice Prince made to have it be black and white. It didn’t start out that way. He started it with a vision of bright colors and Gatsby fashions. In the middle of things, he fired the director and made the post-production people meticulously un-color it. The end result is so charming and romantic. In garish color, it could have gone a little cheesy at the end when Christopher Tracy is gunned down on the pier. The grayscale keeps it classy and reminds me of the hours we spent playing Wuthering Heights and Philadelphia Story on the roadie box VCR.
At the very end of Under the Cherry Moon, the camera zooms in on a note Christopher Tracy has left on a table in the hall.