Michael Jackson

Hat. Coat. Glasses.

The red-hair chile from the far, far foreign land is sitting at we dining table, matching pictures with words, learning English. Quick-quick she work, stumbling only here and there, giggling with girly humour at some private li'l joke or sometimes at a comment I make. I used to worry that she would find me corny because of she pre-teen status. But though she is twelve, she ain’t what we would call force-ripe like them pre-teens on foreign tee vee shows...that is, over-precocious and sassy and rude...none o’ this she ain’t. A lovely child, me friend who introduce me to she does say.

Pants. Blouse. Match, write the words in the blank line.

Gloves.

“Michael Jackson,” I say.

She giggle.

“You like Michael Jackson?”

She nod yes-yes-yes, heart-shape face and green-brown eyes, excited.

“Me too,” I say.

Later I marvel at this...

...how me, she, so different, can appreciate the music of Michael Jackson...how he was able to bridge borders, race, religion, cultures, ages, to reach people. Most creative people can only dream of getting half-way there.

Later, I think too how, although some o’ we may never want to admit it, there is a bit of he in all o’ we. We might colour that bit a different shade, call it another name, but there it is, one bit of the same, from the beginning of time and man.

Only difference is, between he and most o’ we, is that he coulda transcend the pain and sorrow of being human and create amazing works like Earth Song.