When you think of this world we live in as just a big rock, so much smaller in comparison to the vast dark space it bobs along in than we could ever truly fathom, it's wild to consider that everyone who's ever lived before us and everyone who will be born long after we're gone spends the totality of their days on that very same rock. The blue moon that Elvis Presley sang about in his rendition of Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers' 1934 classic is the same blue moon I look up at when I take my dog out one final time before bed each night. And the big yellow sun that shines into my bedroom window at the start of each day is the very same one that Lisa Marie Presley saw in the early hours of January 12, not knowing that it would be her last morning spent on this big rock, just like I won't know when it ends up being mine.
As someone who was born in the spring of 1977, mere months before Elvis died of cardiac arrest at the age of 42, same as his daughter would 46 years later, I've spent my whole life loving the memory of him although, in the grand scheme of things, we only breathed the same air for a very limited amount of time. Elvis has always seemed huge to me, as huge as space itself, and he occupies the same parts of my heart and mind that a father figure would, though I am now older than he ever got to be.
