I saw him live, in concert, four times.
The first time I was 8 months pregnant, and I remember dancing in the aisle, with my tummy hanging over the railing.
I remember a young girl proclaiming to me "Your baby is so lucky. It gets to see Prince before it is even born!"
That was the only concert I attended with someone else.
The other times I went alone. Alone, but not alone, because I was there with myself and I rocked being a Prince fan.
I saw him at the Orpheum for a one night only intimate concert. I was in row 15, on the aisle, and I was in heaven.
I saw him in 2011 - front row seats. I never was in the seat, but danced the night away. You can read my blog about it here.
And now he is gone.
And I am afraid a part of me is gone too.
The part that loved him in Purple Rain and would defend his musicality to the nay-sayers around me.
The part that was brave enough to drive downtown, and park, and attend his concerts by myself.
The part of me that paid $225 for a front row seat.
That part of me that was 33, 42, 47, 56 and went to a concert alone, unafraid, and full of joy.
I just booked tickets to go to see Purple Rain in the Rio Theater in a couple of weeks, and then to go, alone, to see Sign of the Times a few days after that.
Because that woman, that part of me, is still in there.
At 60 I want to hold on to her.
And I want to say good-bye, and thank you, to an artist I have never met, but have always greatly admired, and it is important.
My son called me the day Prince died and asked me if I was ok.
He knew that little part of me. The part that needed someone to acknowledge that this is a hard thing for me to wrap my head around.
Not hard like Robin William dying hard, because he and I shared our struggle with depression.
But hard in the I don't want this to mean that a part of me is now dead too, hard.
It can't mean that.
I won't let it.
