We Love You, Michael. Always.


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Sunny days may chase the clouds away, but in my life experience, sunny days have often been the clandestine omens of devastating news. September 11, 2001 was a beautiful, warm day in New York City, and the sky was in danger of being taken over by bilious, cottony clouds. There was absolutely no warning that would have prepared anyone for how radically our lives would all change. Yesterday, where I reside at least, was a beautiful, sunny day. Not too hot and slightly breezy. Yet for whatever reason, yesterday seemed off to me. If pressed, I can't explain why. It was like walking onto a movie set where all the elements are in place, yet a soulful element is missing. The reason for the vacuous element was answered once I returned home midday. 

It was actually nOva who told me the news first. Ever since that point I have been suspended in a state of anesthesia. A feeling of absolute numbness punctuated by brain-crushing attempts to not break down and cry in public. As the day turned to night, and the outpouring of shock and sadness gripped everyone's consciousness, my attempts became absolutely futile. Have you ever cried so hard and so much that there came a point when you had to pause and revisit exactly why it was you were so upset? Then broke down and cried more again? Welcome to the day that Michael Jackson, The King of Pop, died.

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As far as I was concerned, yesterday should have been a day fraught with hurricanes, earthquakes, and simultaneous volcanic eruptions. Attempting to handle the death of the man who provided the soundtrack to all of my childhood memories was hard. The balmy sunny day of September 11, 2001 meant an end to my days of only being concerned with my immediate surroundings and not the world at large. Yesterday's picture perfect weather and Michael's death meant an end to my childhood as I knew it. Despite my 33 years on this Earth, I still had not gone through the one event that resulted in an emotionally-searing blow to my psyche that caused me to unexpectedly reflect so deeply on my world and my place in it. 
All my life, and likely yours, I have never lived a day where Michael did not exist to have some sort of impact on my life. Yesterday, no lie, I was watching old clips from The Jackson 5 Variety Show and giggling on the rapport between him and a young Janet. "Rock With You" always reminds me of the days my Mom and I would ride around, giggling and laughing while Off The Wall's 8-track played in her car. Right before I broke my leg at eight-years-old, I had just listened to Thriller in its entirety. As a baby, often the only way to console me was to place my body in front of the television when The Jackson 5ive cartoon was on. Listening to a young, preternaturally gifted Michael has always made me cry, as though his brilliance was something the Creator needed for us to witness and greedily consume as proof of greatness and raw, unadulterated talent. 
Despite his larger-than-life theatrics, predilection for the histrionic, and often questionable choices, Michael was always given a pass. And quite simply it's because we are a forgiving lot when it comes to someone who provided so much for us, and simply asked that we try to get together and get ourselves together just long enough to have momentary peace in this world.  Unsurprisingly enough, in these catastrophic times of financial ruin and political turmoil, it is this man's death that gave us all pause to come together long enough to focus on this man's life in order to collectively give praise where it's due. 
I always imagined that I would get a chance to play songs for my child the same way my mother played those same tracks for me. I would get to watch his eyes light up with wonder as I explained how young Michael was, the hardships his family overcame to live a dream many had unflinchingly doubted would ever come to fruition. I imagined that I would be much older when Michael's health would deteriorate, able to come to grips that the most talented man who ever lived would soon meet his Maker. Now what we have left are memories. Memories we all had expected we'd have many more years to wade through with Michael still present among us. The simple truth may be that Michael's death is a reminder that we don't always get what we want. A reminder that taking anyone for granted is about as futile as preventing yourself from crying when you heard the news. As futile as being unprepared for catastrophe on a sunny, cloudless day. 
Eulogizing this man could go on forever. To keep speaking of his greatness without admitting his absence is a type of denial in itself. But he is gone. 
Michael, we no longer have you, but we will always have your music. In short, Michael, we love you. If no one ever told you so with utmost sincerity, thank you so very much. For everything. You have no idea what you still mean to us. So let's just never say goodbye. Let's just play the next song.

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