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It’s weird hearing Michael Jackson’s 14-year-old voice singing “Ben” right now.  I remember I was in the 2nd grade (1972) when this song became a hit.  And I cringed that he was singing so lovingly to a rat.  (This was also Bossing’s piece when he auditioned for his school glee club back in ‘72.)    But his voice was so pure, so  innocent.  And it would make you believe that, really,  you can make a pet out of a lowly house rat.  

Gone too soon…

It will be two weeks since I first heard of the sad news as it was relayed to me by my co-worker, Ms. Mary, late one night while I waited for Bossing to pick me up from work.  We scrambled to check the internet on anything about it.  The news then was still doubtful.  They said he was in a coma, they said he was rushed to a  hospital – nothing specific.  But before I left for the night, Mis. Mary confirmed… Michael is dead.

I devoured every news there was about him even while vacationing in Florida.  I bought the commemorative issue of  Time magzine on him.  Read that side-by-side Michelle Obama’s Time Issue.  I had my iPod playing the Essential Michael Jackson CD on and on.   I downloaded this from iTunes the first time I got hold of my first mp3 player years ago.  (Any playlist was never complete without my Michael Jackson songs even then.)   And now, I think, they will be the only hold I have left to the living Michael – his grunts, his yelps, his voice.   during our whole trip, at times when I know noone was looking, I would shed a tear.  

Yesterday, I turned the TV on right away when we got home.  I was scrambling to watch bits and pieces of his memorial at the Staples Center.  I needed to see his coffin.  I needed to convince myself that this is for real.

And then there I was, sitting on the floor, right smack in front of the Tv in our room, shuffling between Wofl Blitzer’s Situation Room and some other news that I later on abandoned  because the host seemed like he was just there for the ride.  I didn’t need that.  I turned to the E! channel instead.  They were having back-to-back documentaries on Michael.  

And that was that - with a yellow towel in my hand, the first time since I received the news, I let myself cry to my heart’s content.  I needed that.  I needed to grieve.  I really needed to let my brain comprehend that he truly is gone.   

Couting  back the years, I realized, Michael has always been a part of my life – the last 36 years, at least.  And even if my heart wouldn’t want to aceept that the inevitable fixture of my growing up years, the perpetrator of the many love songs I dedicated to my exes, the creator of so many dance musics I performed to from grade school to college (and even when I was working), the enigma and mysterious man I would always defend at the lowest tirades he got during his down times, was finally gone.  He was robbed from me just when I was praying and hoping his coming concert would again catapult him to the throne people were trying to swipe off him.  

He was always and always will be the king of pop – despite all the weird news, despite all the morphings.  Noone’s feet will ever fit those moonwalking-back-and-circle-sliding-shoes he wore.  There is only one king of pop.  Ever.

I’m not even going to go to the last years of his life – the instances that most probably lead him to why his death was how it was.  I’ve never believed any of that anyway.  Whoopi Goldberg put it best what Michael went through and why he acted the way he did.   All I know is that, if my kids were molested, no amount of money would let me shut my mouth up.  Enough said.

So rest in peace, Michael.   I hope this time, the world truly realizes how great you’ve always been and how, because of our own ignorance, we pushed you to the edge somehow.  Reflecting back, maybe we just weren’t ready for someone like you.

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