It’s been two weeks since the death of Michael Jackson, but I felt I’d be remiss if I didn’t write something about him. I first saw Jackson back in the early ’70s on the pages of Tiger Beat, a teen heartthrob magazine that my elementary school friends and I read religiously. There he was with David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman and the Osmonds. Michael and Donny were the youngest and by far the most popular members of their respective groups.

There is something about a Jackson Five hit song that brings back memories of summer days long past, when riding my bike to the ball park was all I had on my list of things to do. As Michael got older and went out on his own, I wasn’t surprised, of course, to see him succeed. In college, we all rushed to the dance floor when the first notes of “Don’t Stop ‘Til Ya Get Enough” or “Beat It” would play.

Two of my best college friends and I loved to play the old Jackson Five music, even in the heyday of Michael’s solo career. Often, we’d meet in a dorm room after a long day and play the Jackson Five’s greatest hits album because it simply picked us up again; it was feel-good music at its best.

Then as Michael got stranger and stranger, I was getting older and building a career and then a family, and I didn’t have time to listen to much music any longer. I’d see reports about Michael from time to time, and as the effects of plastic surgery and skin lightening became drastic, I felt a stab of pain shoot through me every time I saw him. I longed for the little boy with the afro doing dance steps with his brothers on a TV variety show.

But again my life was too busy to dwell on Michael’s life too long. Then came the night of my oldest son’s eighth grade dance; I’d volunteered to help at the dance, so I was there as it was winding down. My head was pounding because the DJ had played only loud rap music, and I was feeling very out of place. What had happened to music like I remembered?

Then came the last song. And suddenly there was that unmistakable voice ... Michael’s. The song was “Got To Be There,” a love ballad. “I've got to be there in the morning, when she says hello to the world ...” It was Michael Jackson the way he used to be, and I closed my eyes and relished his angelic voice. And the teens loved the song, too. Afterwards, I pulled out my Jackson Five album and played it from start to finish; it was like rediscovering part of myself.

No, I didn’t agree with some of the things Michael Jackson did, and I think, like with Elvis’ death, a lot of it had to do with the consequences of society’s ridiculous worship of celebrities. For a person who had far from a normal childhood, how appropriate and sad that he named his ranch “Neverland,” after Peter Pan’s concept of never growing up. Of course the man had tremendous talent (though I think some of the suggestive movements were unnecessary).

But what I will remember is the way he captured an innocence and happiness in his early music that was so real it causes my soul to ache whenever I hear it. To me, he will always be that little boy on the pages of Tiger Beat, smiling with his brothers. In some ways, maybe he never really did grow up.