I Married Michael Jackson

It was a small ceremony, in the back bedroom on the 2nd floor of a modest home in East Las Vegas circa 1983.  

He was different version of his older self, he wore white pants and a yellow vest.  I wore pink rimmed short shorts and a rainbow t-shirt...I think.  

There was no fanfare, no paparazzi, no kiss.  Just me and his music, his moves, his look, and I’m almost sure he screamed “woo” or "hee hee" at least a couple of times that day, in between the only slightly audible whispers of extreme happiness about our union.

It’s no wonder I’ve cried at least once a day, every day since the news of his death.  Like the rest of the world, I’m in disbelief.  

Initially, I wanted to place blame.

Blame it on the doctor...or the sunshine, the moonlight, or the boogie.  I even wanted to go Milli Vanilli style and blame it on the "effin" rain.  But the day was clear. Damn.

Michael Jackson was my first crush, my first musical inspiration. Thriller was the first record I ever wanted to own...not just borrow from my mother.  I wanted it to be mine, to hold it close to my chest, to run my fingers over the words, to admire his weird drawings in the center of the sleeve.  This record belonged to me. Michael belonged to me.

In my pink muscle shirt with a Thriller cover iron on, I listened and learned, memorized and wished.  After the videos began to appear on the new channel called MTV, I began to dance, to mimic is moves, the curl of his lips,  the fog of his breath.  Michael was everything.  To me, he is all things musical.  I really wish heaven could've waited.

He’ll be missed.  

"Heaven Can Wait"

Michael Jackson