I rolled over on my bed and grabbed the remote, turning off the TV roughly. My hands covered my shaky face and I let out a loud sob. Why was it still so difficult?

      It had already been about a year since he had passed away, but I just couldn’t seem to deal with it nicely. It was just so hard to accept the fact that he was gone forever… The world would no longer get to hear his beautiful voice in brand new singles, no longer read about him on magazines and newspapers, no longer see him on TV, and no longer be able to buy tickets to attend a concert where he would always deliver an impeccable performance.

      From now on, we had to be content with just putting on old music videos and googling his peaceful smile. That’s what my weekends were for, really. During weekdays, I would get distracted by schoolwork and everyday life, but when I was alone… Oh boy, did it hurt.

      I couldn’t listen to a song of his, because doing so seemed like a faucet for my sad, hot tears. You know those warm, painful tears that come out of your eyes when you weep out of nostalgia and sadness? Well, picture them and you’ll understand my feelings.

      To be honest, I felt kind of stupid crying over Michael Jackson. Okay, I love him and all, but he was just a singer, wasn’t he? As talented as he was, he was just an entertainer. He didn’t acknowledge my specific existence, and things probably would remain this way.

      Anyway, you see, I sing. I’m not – at all – the best singer out there, but most definitely don’t come any close to the worst. I have a nice voice, certainly better than most people’s. I took singing lessons, but my problem was that my voice was not as firm and strong as I wanted and expected it to be. Going off pitch wasn’t a problem for me, but hitting strong notes surely was. That’s why I struggled so much when I attempted to sing some of Michael’s amazing songs.

      Sometimes I would set up my microphone Shure 58 along with my black and red Onerr amplifier in the small home theater of my house and just sing my lungs out. I used to do it pretty normally, recording myself and all of that. Yes, well, there was something that worried me a little about my singing: I just couldn’t seem to put any emotions into my voice, and I hated that so much. I would often take deep breaths before the music started, read the lyrics and try to understand them, but it was all in vain. No, it didn’t matter what song it was, they would always be emotionless for me. I could even find them beautiful, but I wouldn’t feel the beat and what the person had meant when they wrote those inspiring lyrics. It was just so frustrating and annoying, ugh!

      However, one certain Saturday afternoon, I cried singing a song. Yeah. I had been depressed all day for Michael, and just happened to bump into his immortal single, “Heal the World”, on my karaoke set list, so I decided to give it a try. Oh wow. I couldn’t even finish the song steadily, ‘cause I seemed to be choking with my own sobs. My voice came off all shaky and nervous. My tears were practically drowning me, so I just turned the music off and threw myself on the black leather couch. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me, because I had sung it various times before and not let out a single weep. A light bulb shone over my head for a second, giving me an idea. I reached over to the coffee table and grabbed my iPhone, putting it on video mode.

      “Hey,” I began. “Since I’m crying desperately right now over one of MJ’s hits, I decided to film a brief vlog.”

      The vlog I filmed was only for myself. In it, I expressed my turbulent sadness over Michael’s death, even after a year and a half. I explained how that was the first time I’d been truly emotive because of a song, and how I wanted to register this important event with a video. Of course I wouldn’t show it to anyone and keep it just for me.

      Now back to the present, I allowed the tears to flow, even though I was already sick of them. They were destroying me. I no longer felt like going out with my friends, or doing anything else other than sitting on the couch all day, watching old DVDs of Michael, reading fan fictions about him or simply attempting to sing his songs. My mother noticed I’d been acting weird and melancholic. Me, the forever enthusiastic, happy and nice girl. She even tried to persuade me into telling her what was wrong with me by taking me to the mall, to amusement parks or for fun walks, but I just didn’t want to open up. I felt that I would be judged, and that she would think I was an idiot for suffering so much over a dead celebrity.

      The thing is, I wanted to talk about Michael, I wanted to discuss his deeds and talent with other people, I wanted to share my love and admiration for him, and tell the world how much I missed him.

      But I couldn’t.

      Everyone would think I was insane.

      Well, I guess I was. In some way, at least.

      Anyway, I was sick of suffering so much. It really hurt inside, I could honestly feel some awkward type of emptiness in my being. That did not feel good at all. So, after stepping into my bathroom and splashing some cold water over my swollen face, I figured I should put an end to this. Stop hurting so much. However, how could I do that? Was there any – fair – way? ‘Cause, like, if I tried listening to other people’s music or tried to forget Michael Jackson, I kind of felt as if I was betraying him… Call me crazy, but some part of me wished that he would appear to me at night and say it was all going to be okay, that he loved me and all of that. I might be afraid of ghosts and these sorts of things, but Michael wouldn’t scare me, would he?

      I sat down on my pink chair, determined to come up with some way to set myself free. My true wish was to find a manner for me to say goodbye to him with honors and prestige. The matter was that I couldn’t dedicate a stupid drawing to Michael Jackson, right? I couldn’t just write a blog post about him, seeing as my tribute would be almost null and unrecognized. I wanted to do something big, or at the very least, bigger. What could I come up with? Was I creative and witty enough to do so? I needed to think of something. There was no way I was able to go on with the constant pain…

      Oh wait.

      Is… Is that it?

      Am I thinking what I am thinking?

      I’m such a genius!

    See, every six months, my music school rents a famous and spacious bar downtown to hold a small concert featuring us students. I mean, the ones who enroll. Of course I always made sure to be one of the first to turn in my entry, since the sooner you entered, greater the chance that the songs you suggested would be accepted. Each participant – whether you sang, played guitar, drums, or whatever else there was – had a right to propose two different songs. You would surely sing one of them, and the other maybe. It all depended on the arrangements the teachers would make about the band formations and all of that confusing stuff.

      I used to suggest songs by Guns ‘n’ Roses, Aerosmith, Taylor Swift, Avril Lavigne, etc. But I was tired of singing the same thing every presentation; it was getting on my nerves. Besides, Michael Jackson made much better music than most of them.

      So, basically, my idea was to sing one of his hits this upcoming concert and put extra effort and attention into it. I wouldn’t take it as any another time I sang, when I just rehearsed on the days scheduled and did what I had to do. I would practice, practice, practice and practice a little bit more. I would invite more people. I would dedicate it to Michael. I would fight for my rights to sing his songs and not another one. I would put my heart and soul into it.

      Yeah, that’s what I would do.

      That’s what I had to do.

      I had to say my final goodbye to Jackson with honor and style. This was the way! Hopefully he’d be proud!

      I spun around in my swivel chair. Okay, so that was the plan, and I would do anything to make my wish come true. Seriously. Anything. I was doing this not only for my precious Michael, but also for myself. This was it. My idea was certainly worth a billion dollars. Alright, maybe not a billion dollars. Perhaps not even thirty dollars… Oh well, what counts is the intention, right?

      Snatching my little green notebook from my desk, I grabbed my favorite pen and started writing down:

      “For The Ears” Music School Concert – June 2011

      Song ideas:

      I stopped there, under the sudden realization that I didn’t know which songs to choose. Oh my, what could they be? I didn’t want something with too many high notes, ‘cause I probably wouldn’t be able to hit them. But I also needed something that was enthusiastic, acknowledged, memorable and fun. I wanted the audience to stand up and clap their hands to the rhythm, maybe singing along if they felt like it. Most of all, I wanted Michael to feel the love from the crowd, even though we weren’t a very big or relevant amount of people… Was there any way for him, wherever he was, to notice me? Heaven isn’t that far away, I thought.

      Ugh! That was so annoying. Just because I needed to think of a song, it seemed like every single one I knew disappeared. I went blank! Slamming the notebook against my head multiple times, I tried harder to think of something… But what?!

“For The Ears” Music School Concert – June 2011

            Song ideas: 

            1- You Rock My World

            2- Someone In The Dark

      I sighed to myself. Yeah, that was probably it. It was an incredibly difficult choice to make, but, sorting things out, I found myself able to pick only two… Somehow I felt that they did a good job expressing my feelings toward Michael.

      After eating lunch on Friday after school, I grabbed my lilac folder and headed to my mother’s room, clapping my hands so she would wake up from her nap.

      “Mom, time to go!”

      She slowly opened her eyes and nodded with a lazy yawn. “Are you sure you wanna go today? We can stay in, you know…”

      I rolled my dark brown eyes. “C’mon, don’t make me be the mother here.”

      “Fine,” she got up from the bed and put her one-inch black heels on. “Grab my purse for me, will you?”

      The car ride was far from silent. I had connected my iPhone to the stereo, making my Michael Jackson playlist blast through the speakers and drown the vehicle in amazing music. I had downloaded practically all of his songs, from the earliest Jackson 5 hit up to This Is It. Extremely enthusiastic and emotional about the songs, I danced extravagantly and sang along in a very off-tune way while sitting on the passenger’s side. Mom often stole awkward glances at me, probably mentally going all “what on Earth is wrong with you” on me.

      “So,” she began in between of two songs. “Don’t you think we’ve heard enough MJ for the month?”

      “No, Mom. He taught me to don’t stop until I get enough, and since I haven’t gotten enough, I’ll just follow his teachings.” I winked at her mockingly.

      Mom just rolled her eyes playfully. “Seriously, Anna, you have to listen to something else sometimes, y’know? Vary!”

      Gladly, she pulled up in front of my music school right at that second, so I was able to ignore her comment and head out of the car. Excitement consumed my entire being, ‘cause I couldn’t wait to tell my coach about my – brilliant, I must say – idea.

      “Hey Debbie,” I greeted the shy, skinny receptionist. She grinned at me and nodded back. “Can I go in already?”

      “Oh, um, wait just a second. Marcus has gotten a little bit carried away, but he’ll notice the time for his other student is up eventually,” she giggled.

       “Alright, no probz,” I laughed, collapsing onto the little leather loveseat. I looked around the room. Its walls were decorated with multiple rock band posters, pictures of the ‘principal’ with some famous artists and a bunch of signed stuff. There were also a few guitars hanging behind a closed glass pane. I really felt at home at the little school. It was so cozy, so full of music, so enthusiastic, encouraging and heartwarming… Going there was my favorite thing to do on Fridays. I flipped through some Rolling Stone magazines that lay on the round coffee table, until I heard a door open with a creak. Marcus’ deep, husky voice quickly echoed through the corridor as he escorted his other student towards the exit.

      Lucille was a short, blonde girl who usually kept her incredibly straight hair tucked into elaborated braids. She had light freckles covering her entire petite body. Marcus threw a friendly little punch onto her shoulder, laughing. “Don’t forget to practice the high scale solfege, ‘cause I can see your skills have been lacking studies.”

      She chuckled and adjusted her glasses over her delicate nose. “I won’t.”

      Truth is, although Lucille was a small, timid girl, when she opened her mouth to sing, one hell of a voice came out of there. Don’t even ask me how, okay? ‘Cause I really can’t imagine how such a tiny person can hold so much oxygen inside her lungs. It’s pretty creepy. Of course there’s still a long way to go, but her voice does remind me in several ways of Christina Aguilera’s. Yes, that is one hell of a compliment.

      Once she’d left, Marcus walked up to me, putting up his right hand for us to exchange our special handshake. “What’s up, kiddo?”

      I began walking further into the place, with my vocal coach following right behind me as I ranted on and on in a singsong voice, “Oh wow, I can’t even wait any longer to tell you all about my awesome idea, Marcs!”

      The dark blonde man, who was in his mid-twenties, slouched back on his purple swivel chair once we were inside his little room. It was very similar to the reception, but Marcus had added his own touch to it. “Alright, talk then…”

      I straightened my back and wrapped my arms around my knees, a big smile on my face. “So, you remember how depressive I’d been ever since… Y’know?”

      Marcus was the only person who knew about my situation, the only one I felt truly comfortable to confide in. Maybe I felt this way because he knew what it’s like to love and venerate an artist with all your heart. Besides, he was my very good friend, despite the age difference, seeing as he’d been my vocal coach for about three years now. He’d known me before Michael’s death and after, really being able to perceive the contrast in my state of mind. To my question, he just nodded.

      “Okay, so this week, after crying my heart out one more time, I realized I was tired of suffering so much. It really hasn’t been good for me. Ever since that god-awful day, my grades kind of began to drop, I got sick more often and all of that crap, right?”

      “Yeah, you’ve been pretty miserable, Ans.”

      I proceeded to explain everything to him, making sure that my motives and plans were undeniably clear. “I want to be able to say goodbye to Michael and let go of him, but also making him proud and honored.” I looked at him, twisting my nose and slightly hesitant. “Ya get what I’m saying?”

      He sat up straighter and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I do! And I think that’s a really cool idea, Ans,” he told me confidently. “I like it!”

      Oh yes! He approved of it! That was already one step taken ahead.

      “Do you have any ideas of what songs you wanna perform, though?”

      I nodded vigorously and fumbled through the plastics in my folder, searching for the page I’d ripped off of my green notebook. Once I’d found it, I handed it to him. “Here, those are my choices.”

      Marcus took a look at it and thought for a moment. He turned around and logged onto YouTube, writing them one at a time inside the search box. We listened to them in sequence so we’d be able to analyze them together, checking out if they would sound harmonious inside my small performance. The whole time, Marcus nodded in approval, a smile growing wider and wider on his cute face.

      “Well, Ans,” he started, turning around to give me a high five, “I must say you were truly inspired when you came up with this idea…”

       In the end of the lesson, I stopped by at the reception after saying my goodbyes to Marcus. There I received a formulary that had to be filled in by me and my legal guardian, which would be my mom or dad. Probably my mom, though.

      Daddy was really present in my life, and I was totally thankful for that. Some of my friends didn’t have fathers to rely on, and I felt insanely bad for them. Fortunately, I knew exactly what it was like to go camping and fishing with your father, spend holidays with him, help him by handing him tools while he’s fixing something, and to visit his workplace. Those were all activities we were used to do ever since I was a little kid. However, one unfortunate fact was that, back in 2005, when I was like, ten years old, my parents began filing for a divorce. I remember that day very clearly, the day they told me. Having just gotten home from school, I collapsed down on the kitchen table to have some jell-O to eat since I was starving. Yes, I eat like a soldier who has just gotten back from war. That isn’t important right now, though. I remember Mom putting the last plate in the dishwasher, then sitting across from me. Dad walked into the room and sat there too, both looking sympathetically at me. There was kind of a sad, apologetic look on their countenance as well.

      “Yes…?” I began, feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

      They looked at each other. “Sweetie, there- there is something you should know.”

      Being the clueless person that I’ve always been, I instantly put a wide grin on my face, figuring they were about to say what I was thinking they were. “Oh my God,” I exclaimed, putting my spoon down. “Mom, you’re pregnant!!”

      More looks were exchanged, but that didn’t mean anything to me, who just kept rambling about how much I wanted a little brother or sister, seeing as I was an only child. Dad didn’t take long to interrupt me. “Anna, no,” he told me matter-of-factly. “Your mother is not pregnant.”

      “Oh?”

      “Yeah…” She said. “Listen, what we’ve got to tell you is not exactly nice or fun. Truth is,” she squeezed my hand, “we’re getting a divorce.”

      My world just fell right then and there. That was such a shock to me, because, in my head, mom and dad didn’t have any issues at all in their relationship. Sure, some occasional fights here and there, but I figured every couple had their moments of rage. I would find out by myself, months later, that the real reason of their separation was my father’s affair. I refused to speak to him for a while, but soon gave in. Eventually, I forgave him, although my anger didn’t affect my love and respect for him in the first place. Taking the chance and learning with the experience, I realized both were much better off without each other. Mom would date sometimes, but never anything too serious, because she always put me as her priorities. Of course she valued her job as well, she was an advertiser. Dad kept seeing his mistress for several weeks after that, but ended the relationship after discovering she had one secret lover of her own. How ironic was that?

      Even though we lived in separate houses, I’d go to my dad’s all the time, and I loved it. He adored getting to see me too; we shared a very respectful, sincere relationship. He was my hero. Of course he’d made his mistakes in the past, but nobody’s perfect, right? Besides, he’d gotten over them. Mom and Dad were actually still good friends, like they always were. Both had a huge participation in my life, I just ended up seeing my mother more often, that’s all.

      Enough of talking about my parents. Right after leaving the music school with the form carelessly tucked inside of my folder, I met up with Mom at the coffee shop right across the street, where she would always wait for me. Once I went inside, I saw her sitting on a comfy armchair, one leg resting over the other. She was also playing with her dirty blonde hair and laughing at something the handsome guy sitting beside her was saying. Looking closer, I came to the conclusion that he was probably younger than her, and when I say younger, I mean a difference of ten years. He had stylish blonde hair and wore a blue T-shirt that hugged his generous, defined abs. Mom sure knew how to pick a guy. It wasn’t long until she noticed me and quickly pulled herself together, putting on her mom act.

      “H-hey, sweetheart,” she stuttered. The guy looked at me and just nodded friendly, gesture I politely replied to. The pair said goodbye to each other with a gentle – and slightly awkward - kiss on the cheek and he left.

      “Mommy.” I made my best lost puppy face. “Is that my new daddy?”

      She gave me a soft punch on the shoulder and rolled her eyes, laughing. “Just get on the car.”

      As soon as I entered my house, I rushed to my bedroom and placed the formulary on top of my desk, along with my dearest pen y’all are already familiar with. Sitting down, I looked at it. There was like, one page and a half full of rules and conditions. It said, for instance, that the presentations would be held on late June, 2011. Since that was mid January, I still had somewhat a long time to practice and plan everything correctly.

      I wrote down my personal data, such as date of birth, full name, nationality, parents’ names, and all of that. After noting the two songs I’d chosen, signing my name and getting my Mom to sign hers, I was done with it, and very happy. I was very satisfied with myself over my idea, and now I was halfway there. Of course there was still plenty to do, and I couldn’t even be sure that my songs would be accepted. Nevertheless, I did have a positive feeling about this, and my intuitions didn’t normally let me down.

      I carefully guarded my completed formulary inside of one of the plastics of my folder, bothering to check for any undesired paper wrinkles that would somehow insist to appear. Relieved, I stripped off of my stylish winter outfit and hurried into the warm shower. I just loved to feel the water against my skin, it was so calming.

      After throwing on my furry pajamas, I set up my microphone in front of my computer, deciding to get some practice started. Needless to say, I got lost in the magic of Michael’s music, worrying to get the vibratos on their respective places, and doing my very best to hit the right notes. I only stopped my musical trance to eat a brief dinner.

      By the end of the day, I lay on my cozy bed and drifted into a dreamful sleep. It’d been long since I’d last consciously dreamt, if that makes sense. Yes, that night I dreamed. I dreamed a nice dream. I dreamed of Michael.