Garcia Mayte - The most beautiful: my life with Prince

For what we are about to see next, we must enter quietly into the realm of genius.

Y OUNG F RANKENSTEIN

Chanhassen, Minnesota, April 2016

The chain-link fence around Paisley Park is woven with purple ribbons and roses, love notes, tributes, and prayers for peace. Tall poplars and elms, still naked from winter, stand over rolling brown grass. It hasnt been very long since the snow melted off, but below the cold surface, the whole place is waiting to be reborn. The sky is overcast with low clouds, but I keep my sunglasses firmly in place, because my face is a train wreck from a week of weeping.

There is a woman who sits all alone by the pier

Her husband was naughty and caused his wife so many tears

I always thought it was interesting that Prince saw this sad little figure sitting off to the side in Paisley Park, a song about colorful people and happy children. If I allow myself to get existential about it, I wonder if she is me. I hear the cool, sharp clang of zills, and a chill slips down my backbone. I imagine Prince sitting at the piano in those hypercreative hours just before dawn. For a fleeting moment, there I am in his minds eye. He studies me briefly and then jots the words on notepaper, recognizing on some level this moment of truth from another time.

He died without knowing forgiveness and now she is sad, so sad

Maybe shell come 2 the Park and forgive him and life wont be so bad

Theres a familiar Midwestern bite in the air. Springtime at Paisley Park smells like clean fog, wet fir trees, and distant city traffic. I take in a deep breath and wait to exhale. My four-year-old daughter, Gia, tugs on my coat sleeve.

Mama, is it time to go? she asks for the thousandth time.

A few more minutes.

Ive done my best to explain to Gia why so many people have brought so many flowers. Ive told her that the man they called Prince has died.

Prince is in heaven now? she says.

Yes. Hes in heaven.

With Boogie? Gia asks, remembering what I told her when we lost our beloved golden retriever.

Yes. Hes with Boogie in heaven.

Mama, she says, can we get a ladder and climb up to get him?

Thats Gia. As sweet and unexpected as a raspberry.

Gia knows that I am her real mommy. Someday Ill explain to her how her birth mother and I helped the universe get that right. Ill tell her about her brother, Amiir, who was waiting for his daddy in heaven. Ill play her the songs my husband sang for our son.

tears go here

tears go here

I stroke her cheeks, which are pink and a little dry, because its early spring in Minnesota. Weve barely made it past Easter, and already 2016 has been a jarring year for celebrity obituaries, particularly in the music industry. Natalie Cole died on New Years Eve. David Bowie passed ten days later, followed by Glenn Frey of the Eagles, Maurice White of Earth, Wind & Fire, and Princes own protg Vanity. Then Harper Lee, the author of To Kill a Mockingbird, passed away, and then Nancy Reagan and Patty Duke, and then Chyna, which shocked me to the core, becausewell, because she was Chyna and only forty-six years old when she died.

April 21, 2016, had begun like any other Thursday. I dropped Gia off with my dad and joined the streaming LA traffic on my way to Baldwin Park Animal Care Center in the San Gabriel Valley for a dog-grooming class. We were practicing on shelter dogs, which, according to our teacher, meant there was no pressure. In my mind, the very opposite was true: I felt an intense sense of responsibility to animals in peril. I wanted these little guys to be at their most adorable when people came to check out pets waiting to be adopted. That first impression is the difference between life and death for many of these animals; its hard for people to see them as a potential family member if theyre not looking their best. I was not about to screw that up.

If I bring my cat, I asked the teacher, will you show me how to do it?

He said, Sure. But my cat, Willy, was in loud disagreement, churring and squalling as I sped down the freeway. He was being so vocal I almost missed the text from Manuela. We share a strange bond, Manuela and I. Ill get to that later. Relevant in this moment: Manuela Testolini is Princes second ex-wife and not a person who gets on the phone a lot, so it was odd to see her brief text from the corner of my eye.

call me right away

My first thought was to ignore it until I got to class, but something pulled me to the side of the road.

Hey, girl. I tried not to sound impatient. Whats up?

Her voice was shallow, choked with tears. I wanted to call you before you heard on the news. Prince is dead.

What?

Yeah. ImIm freaking out. Im doing this Earth Day presentation at my daughters school andand hes dead. They found him in an elevator at Paisley.

There was a moment of muffled shock while the words sank in, and then it was as if Id been sucked into a funnel cloud, everything spinning around methe traffic roaring by, Willy yowling in the back seat, the sky falling in front of the windshield. I heard myself screaming,