Amy Winehouse is dead.
Yesterday, and they don’t know yet.
Oh, I’m sorry.
The words came out but they were just words. Was I really sorry? Did it make a difference to me if she was dead or alive?
I felt nothing but a passing shadow of regret. Two hours later I was still thinking, still looking for something, some deeper feeling, analyzing, probing. Who was Amy Winehouse and what did I know about her?
To me she was a voice, a face on a screen, a troubled person, a lost soul. I didn’t know her.
I didn’t know how she liked her coffee or if she walked barefoot in her house in the middle of the night. I didn’t know her favorite color, if she had any pets or the name of her first love. I didn’t know what made her burst out laughing and what movie made her cry. I didn’t know if she liked chocolate or vanilla or the name of her best friend. I didn’t know how she held her head when she brushed her hair or the look on her face when she was truly happy. I didn’t know any of these things and that’s why it doesn’t make a difference. What I know is that she is always a click of a mouse away. That’s all I need to see her and to hear that beautiful voice. To me, she is not dead. She’s still here.