i stood before the bathroom mirror this morning

when loudly and rather unexpectedly, michael's

song played. i shouted, 'viva, boetie!'

and the joy and unreality, in equal measures,

that made me breathless with sad shock,

made my day fastforward in an energy surge

that surprised me. (but how could i not dance to that tune?)

and i wished with the fierceness of fire that we could

all be together again, or at least, that if you could not make it,

which of course you couldn't, the rest of us could, and speak of you

and your perfect jacko moves (hand on crotch but not quite -

too-shy-lady-di, somehow) and your whacky ways that we

all loved and love more now that we do not have them around,

so that we could try to out-tell each other with the best

boetie-tale ever, and in our still-disbelieving moestaq-minds we

would be your favourite, your favourite, with the way we

vie with each other so that you'd love us a little extra, a little

most. most of all. (from wherever you are, it doesn't matter where)

oh, we would, we certainly would try to be that one, that favourite.

and when i told your sister this today, she did not

expect where my story was going. i could hear the confusion in her

anti-response once she had registered my little telling of it,

another realization-day catching her unawares in the gut.

and my fault. and i wished right then that i had rather

bitten off and swallowed my playful, careful tongue.

'boetie' means little brother