It didn’t happen when I heard the news. It didn’t happen when I watched all the coverage. It didn’t happen when I reminisced and watched all his videos.
In all this time since Michael Jackson’s death, I’d somehow celebrated his life and his music. I wasn’t going to cry for him.
But Paris Katherine Jackson made me cry.
It seems difficult to remember that this icon was also a person. He was somebody’s father. Someone had looked to him everyday, expected to hold his hand, expected to hear him laugh or tell stories…expected him to be there.
Watching that segment…it made me realize that for that little girl, her father was gone. The kind of gone that’s permanent. It’s not the one-day-rounding-a-corner-and-seeing-him-again, not the random-phone-call-in-the-middle-of-the-night, not the hearing-about-what-he-did-yesterday-mentioned-in-someone’s-conversation kind of gone.
He was gone in a way that you realize there are no more memories to be made, no more moments to be shared, no more hope that one day you’ll see him again. He’s just gone. Just like that.
And I’m so sorry for Little Paris Jackson to know that kind of loss.