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Missing You Never Gets Old

One year ago today, I woke on a chilly weekday morning before dawn. Tangled in the web of a bad dream, I’d jerked up in bed and remained in a state of wide-eyed apprehension until throwing off the covers and surrendering to the day.  Wrapped tightly in my familiar old robe, I trudged to the kitchen, propped myself up at the counter with a cup of coffee, and reached for my phone.

After slogging through a maddening lot of junk emails, and a couple late night texts, I surrendered to the siren call of Facebook. I scanned the first post that popped into my feed, from an old friend from high school days. I can’t recall the exact words she used, but she was torn to shreds as she passed along the news I never expected to hear: David Bowie was dead.
I read her post over and over. I checked the BBC and sure enough, it was true. I cried as the shock bore into me, and I felt a pain I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t felt for the death of even some people I actually knew. Weird to some, I know, bu…

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