Even in death, who could be more alive than Dolly?

Blasting “Wildflowers” in the grocery parking lot, I caught the attention of an older woman who waved to me. “Gosh, I love her!” she yelled.

“I love her too!”

Not “loved.” But “love.”

Dolly Parton, the heart of Appalachia and of America herself, may have departed us, but our feelings are grounded in the present. Even in death, who could be more alive than Dolly?

Voluptuously pure, wryly angelic, and profoundly committed to the betterment of society in ways visible and not so visible, Dolly Parton at times seemed larger than her music.

It’s the music, however, we will keep returning to: the crystalline voice and the faith threaded deep in the lyrics, a kind of universal faith, a blanket anyone could cover themselves with on a cold day.

Growing up in the South, it was only natural to be exposed to Dolly in all of her iterations. As a kid, I was already in love with her for her performance in Steel Magnolias alone.

It wasn’t until my first big breakup, though, that I began to understand her artistry, and not just as the brilliant author of “I Will Always Love You.”

We call it heartbreak, but it feels like you are being squeezed of everything you have when you first discover that love may not be enough. I was being squeezed so hard that I could not stop crying, it was like my head had sprung a permanent leak. It was in that state that I discovered “Two Doors Down,” one of the few pieces of music that got through to me:

“I think I’ll dry these useless tears and get myself together / I think I’ll wander down the hall and have a look around / ‘Cause I can’t stay inside this lonely room and cry forever / I think I’d really rather join ’em two doors down, yeah.”

Singing about a great pain with a twinkly little smile, Dolly Parton urged me to swipe at my eyes and get out of bed and step outside. No matter how cheesy it sounds – and cheesy as a category did not apply to Dolly, she transcended it with her optimism alone – this woman helped me out. She helped out millions of people.

Later on in life, when I found myself especially angry – anger being an emotion that exhausts me – Dolly’s music frequently acted as my steam valve.

It’s hard to stay angry when you’re listening to a clear, hopeful voice like Dolly’s. A voice like a bird perched on your window, cocking its head at the mess that you are.

When my father passed away, Dolly’s music was right there again. Lacking the corrosive ego that often defines a generational talent, Dolly was a terrific collaborator, and her collaboration on “Faith” alongside Galantis I played on repeat as I sorted through old photos and planned the funeral.

It was a fitting song – sunny and aching.

Dolly’s elastic nature allowed her great scope, you see. Never forgetting her country roots and wisely remaining herself, she nevertheless reached out across the divides of genre, of background, of tradition.

While a lot of artists have covered the Rolling Stones fantastically, for example, it was Dolly’s cover of “I Can’t Get No (Satisfaction)” that I found to be the best.

Singing her lungs out despite her already advanced age, Dolly brought her own brand of honky tonk sensuousness to the song, joined by Pink and Brandi Carlile. The insolence that defined the Stones turns to feminine playfulness and warmth. The sound is lush and rich. Some artists like to eat each other alive, but for Dolly, it seems that work was more like fellowship.

This was a woman who could have rested on her laurels decades ago, but chose to stay open and curious instead. The same openness also made her an effective philanthropist.

People wonder how this diminutive, forever sparkly woman could bring millions of us together, but the answer, I believe, is obvious: it was her cheerful humility.

It wasn’t just disarming; it made you want to join her in whatever she was doing. This is how she got us to clasp hands.

Dying at 80 seems far too soon for Dolly Parton. But as others have noted, the love of her life passed on last year. Dolly Parton and Carl Dean met in a Nashville laundromat, and were married for nearly 60 years. Staying out of the spotlight and running an asphalt company, he was the man she came home to at the end of the day.

Perhaps all of the tearful Instagram tributes are correct. Perhaps Carl simply needed her back.

Good for you, Carl. We get it. But it’s not an exaggeration to say that generations of Americans feel orphaned right now.

Images: Peabody Awards, RCA Records, Kris Harris King