My husband Adam and I, in an attempt to diffuse the mundane act of laundry-doing, started a ritual many years ago. Instead of just popping up to the local *Laundromat we haul our down and dirties to nearby neighborhoods and use the time between washing and drying to eat, drink and explore.

And so on Saturday, we found ourselves in a Greenpoint Laundromat where we tossed our clothes in a double loader and headed out to see what we could see. Two blocks later, we were seated in a toasty tavern where Adam could catch the second half of the Chiefs/Texans playoff game, and I could catch the second half of happy hour. He ordered a Guinness. I had a red wine. With the sun going down on an already chilly January afternoon, it seemed like the right move.

Football was on the big screen, but the game sound was muted. Low-playing music seeped into the chatter around us, creating an indistinguishable mumble of lyrics and conversation that added to the cozy comfort cast from candles on the table and little white lights strung above the bar.

A couple of women, both red lipsticked and one in horn-rimmed glasses, grabbed the stools next to us, saying their hellos and new year greetings to the bartender as they removed their floppy winter hats and oversized coats.

Adam and I watched the game, ordered nachos and another round. I picked up on bits and pieces of the women’s conversation with the bartender as they discussed a friend in common.

“Oh yeah, how’s he doing, you going to his gig next week?”

There was some clapping from the tables closest to the T.V. and a mumble of “oh man, another interception,” from Adam.

The women kept up their conversation with the bartender while he fumbled with a playlist on his phone.

“Have you heard it yet?”
“No. Turn it up.”

The ambient mumble was broken by a drumbeat that took hold of my pulse, so it felt like my heart was beating in sync, and then the sound of a sax and shivers up my spine. I felt warm, aglow, distant from reality. The bartender was streaming Lazarus

“Listen, it’s the new Bowie, the Blackstar album,” I said. Adam turned away from the game and tilted his head up to the sound, nodding, leaning into me. We listened.

“I wonder if he’ll tour,” I said. “We should try to see him live.”

“Un-huh,” said Adam. The game was back on.

We left a little while later, collected our laundry, joined our friends for dinner and got on with the rest of the weekend.

This morning I awoke, reached for my iPhone and adjusted my eyes to the Notifications screen. Half a dozen Golden Globe headlines and then:

WSJ: David Bowie Dies at 69 After Battle with Cancer
New York Times: David Bowie Dies at 69

A hoax, I thought. I hit Twitter. More of the same headlines appeared. Not a hoax. Had I missed his cancer in the flurry of his album debut?

NY Post: David Bowie Dies After Secret Battle with Cancer

At the corner cafe where I stop each morning for an almond mocha, I lingered by the counter and listened to the wool capped baristas who sometimes call me ma’am:

“I didn’t even know he was sick.”
“I know. Man, it’s just…weird.”
“I remember when I heard Lazarus the first time, I was like ‘what is this I’m feeling?'”
“Right?”

“Right!” I thought. But I didn’t chime in, mainly because of the “ma’am” thing and not wanting to seem like an eavesdropping mom. Instead I smiled and said my usual indifferent, so not a ma’am, “thanks, ciao.” And they responded with their usual indifferent, this is just my day job, “yep, see ya.” Then I slipped on my gloves and stepped into the cold, struck by the sad confusion I always feel upon the death of someone whose art, ideas, or humor has had an impact on me.

Isn’t it absurd and selfish that the death of someone who is a complete stranger to me can feel like such a personal loss? And isn’t it unfair to those who truly knew him and are feeling real pain?

Today though, I think I’ve finally learned to reconcile the sadness that comes with such a loss. For while we collectively mourn the artist, what we each mourn individually is a personal loss of moments in time and wistful memories of the people with whom we once listened, laughed and danced. That is not absurd or selfish.

“Look up here, I’m in heaven. I’ve got scars that can’t be seen. I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen. Everybody knows me now.”
-David Bowie, Lazarus

“Lights aglow, cozy. Sipping wine, Blackstar streaming. Basked in warmth and love.
-Kikki Haiku, Saturday, 1/9.

Rest in peace Ziggy Stardust.