How sad to hear about the death of Whitney Houston, ironically on the eve of the annual
Grammys telecast. At the same time, I can't seem to work up any tears over the news . I
realize that it's a tragedy that someone with so much talent suffered from obvious demons
that plagued her for most of her adult life.
We all have them. Some of us experience much greater success than others at keeping them
at bay and not overwhelming our ability to know right from wrong and not to cross over from
moderate to excessive abuse of our minds and bodies. One can only hope that she is at peace
now.
It will make no difference what the cause of death was but there were reports that Houston's
behavior the last 48 hours of her life was erratic. Some observers at the Beverly Hilton Hotel
where she died said she reeked from the smell of alcohol and several vials of prescription drugs
were found in the bathroom of her suite at the hotel.
One might ask where Houston's entourage was at the time she was in the bathtub alone in her bathroom. Judging from the fact that she had been partying since Thursday evening, wasn't
anyone in her group a little bit concerned about her?
Unlike the late Michael Jackson, who left behind much younger children, Houston has left behind an 18 year old daughter. At least she lived long enough to watch her daughter grow from childhood into a lovely and mature young lady.
The real tragedy here is not that we won't hear Houston sing again. After all, her glory days were behind her and this latest comeback probably would have ended like the last one did -
uneventful and generally unsuccessful. No, the tragedy is over the loss of a young woman's
mother who won't be around to laugh with and sing for her daughter.
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