Stars

I wanted feathered bangs like Farrah’s.

I wanted to make the sidewalk light up with each step as Michael did in the “Billie Jean” video.

Farrah’s cleavage turned me on when I was a kid, mainly because I thought I wasn’t supposed to see it, even though that beaded gown was designed to show it off, and that photo was on the cover of Time for all to see.

Michael moved his body in oddly graceful ways that put me in a trance. I don’t care if it makes me one of the mindless masses; his moonwalk was thrilling to watch, even when he lip-synched.

Both of them worried too much about how they looked and went too far with cosmetic surgeries. They were beautiful. Maybe didn’t realize it. Or maybe they did and hoped they could preserve their youth.

I won’t think about this for long. I wasn’t a big fan of either. It was impossible not to notice them, though. They were big, bright stars, and I was a kid who wanted to matter. They were there for me to admire, and no one gave me a reason not to.

They seem like people I once knew well, but at some point, we grew apart.

Remembering them is a pleasant distraction, not sorrowful at all, except for remembering how sad I was back then and how much time I spent gazing at stars, hunting for my place in the constellations.