Every now and then I’ll be walking on the track, or reaching into the fridge for a few purple grapes or doing whatever, and it’ll hit me: oh yeah, Prince is dead. It comes like a whisper or a tug on my sleeve. It comes when I’m listening to Voyage to Atlantis instead of Adore and I realize this song isn’t his and I’m only barely upset. And isn’t that just like grief, sneaking up on you with a faint, random reminder that someone who made a fingerprint in your skin has left your life forever? Isn’t that grief’s oily nature, having its way with you in the produce aisle or at work until it’s ready to let you go? Sometimes my Prince-reminders feel sweet, like someone has just barely brushed my neck with his lips so I won’t forget he loves me: Remember when you first heard Insatiable? You were dating that guy and his Mama didn’t like you but you loved him so it didn’t matter. Sometimes, even, the reminders are fun: get ready for it boys…Prince is about to hit a note so high it might crack the windshield (radio up ear-hurtingly loud). At the end of the day and the beginning of morning, the tenderest part of me won’t let me forget that a small, beautiful man who was the quintessential badass won’t ever again play the Fox Theater or the Warner or the Verizon Center. I won’t sit in row 30 next to Toya listening to her and Prince sing each of us songs, even the ones no one knows but the two of them. I guess I’ll have to settle for his music and the occasional reminders, both asking me to dance.