It's been 12 days, almost to the first minute that I heard. I knew that instant; I didn't need Charlie Gibson to tell me or whoever it was that finally announced the news, confirmed what my heart already knew, that Peter Pan had died. It's been 12 days that the world has been a little darker place; twelve days since they told us that never again would we see his gentle smiling face. Twelve days I've been trying to understand how a fairy tale dies, how an unmistakable spark of magic is just ... gone. Twelve days I didn't grieve; I rejoiced. I was so happy for Michael, finally a way out; finally peace. Finally wrapped up in a love that didn't judge, love doesn't judge love as strange, as odd or perverted. So happy for Michael. Oh sadness, sadness for Paris and for Prince and for Blanket, sadness for Catherine and Janet and Jermaine, but joy for Michael.
In that first moment, I thought he's finally free; they/we won't hurt him anymore; they/we won't ridicule him anymore. With wide eyed wonder he can sing and dance and embrace love, and no one will question his motives. So happy for Michael. Twelve days and today, inside of a bronze and gold box is a present from and again for heaven. I finally cried, not for Michael or his family, not even for those beautiful babies, not even for all of you. For 12 days, 12 days later I finally cried for me. I don't understand what it means when a fairy tale dies.
Peter Pan must we get old? Must we forget to notice the beauty of a flower, the magic of a butterfly? Peter Pan is this world destined to be a place where a child loved is a child molested? Peter Pan? With you here... with you here we were the world. You gave us not just the unction but the courage to look in the mirror. Peter Pan, oh Peter Pan. Will Tinkerbelle cease to fly? Peter Pan won't you please, please tell me what happens when a fairy tale dies?
It was our intention to publish Tuesday, but I couldn't. Talk of stamps and Ranch Records, tickets to the memorial service listed on Ebay and hustlers hawking everything, bootleg Billie Jean and cheap sequined gloves, and I just couldn't. I didn't want, didn't want Not Ur Momma's News to be part of the opportunistic onslaught. We want to share our memories and thoughts with you, but we took a step back and waited until today out of respect for a moment that was not ours. And out of respect for Michael, who always will be ours. Though your stay was far too short, we thank you for blessing us with your talent and your innocence. We love you Peter Pan.
In This Issue
Remembering One of Music's Greatest - As Our #1
by Atlanta Red
When Drugs Become Toxic - The Danger of Self Medicating
by Belinda Anderson
by Barbara Dixon
by Dr. Linda Burke-Galloway
and much more
in the new
Quote of the Week
"And I want his 3 children to know wasn't nothing strange about your daddy; it was strange what your daddy had to deal with."
Reverend Al Sharpton
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