Dear Michael

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Dear Michael

 

June 25, 2009, I thought you had run away from the world to hide behind trees. I thought there was an island, commoners hadn’t discovered. Today 2019 I know that you are dead. I see evidence of it every year on your birthday. You are missed.

I was six years old when I heard One more chance at love and knew I was in love with your voice. I replayed the music until I knew every word. At six you don’t grasp the true meanings of romantic love but I was able to feel and sense of loneliness in the song. Michael, I knew there was something hurting you. At six I told the world you didn’t do it. I would go on to defend something I had no proof of for years.

Dear Michael, I regret not being old enough to see you perform. Today my best bet is to wait for them to digitally put you back on the stage. You haven’t truly died yet. You rest for months and then they drop unreleased music. I know that your box is cold and that you turn in it. Did I tell you yet that I cried for six months after you were gone? I would force myself to pay you tribute with hours of singing. I’d stay up all night watching videos of you alive. Death is wicked and I am afraid.

Death is different for artist. An artist’s work is left in the public eye for years and they are never forgotten but when I die what is left of me? Other than my family’s memory? Death could come and rob me of my youth before I am able to master words.

I have never lost anyone. In my lifetime. Michael your passing has been the biggest death I’ve ever gone through. Sometimes I think of how I will go. Sometimes I feel selfish for living my life and not sitting down with my mother and father often. I live in a bubble most days and I feel as if time is moving fair enough so that everyone in my world is protected by the unknown qualities of death.

If I die I want the people I love to stand up and sing your song “Be not always” because it’s the song I sing well in the shower. I also want them to remember me as a creative person who wanted to build bridges with language. I want to be thought of as a sensitive soul. I hope they remember to pray that, I make it to Jesus in three days and that when he shows me my life that he deletes the sex scenes.  For years I thought heaven was the same for all. That there were chairs on clouds and everyone who had died sat in rows drinking milk and honey. I thought you Michael might greet me since I prayed for your peace. But now I feel as if my heaven will be me in a room where there are pens and paper. Perhaps it’ll be my job to write for all of eternity or to watch over my loved ones. Writing down their wrongs and rights. Guiding them to their path.

I wonder if heaven is the place where a dead man thinks. Michael are you somehow alive in the sky? Do you still hear your fans shouting to you? I believe you are at peace it fills me with happiness to think that maybe death can be a road to something brand new. Death a beginning of immortality.  Or did you come back a child who will grow to be another musician, or does God give us all a new fate? When I die I hope to come back as a tree. A tree on an island, humans can’t find.

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