No one was more excited than Michael when our eldest sister arrived, and he was the perfect doting uncle. He spent more time with Stacee, pulling faces to make her coo and laugh, than he did with anyone else. In fact, I don’t know who was entertaining whom as they crawled around on hands and knees. We left them alone, with Michael dangling a red, white and black transistor radio, shaped like a globe, over her crib. We must have been catching up with Rebbie in the adjoining room for about an hour when we wondered, “Is Michael still in there?”
Rebbie went to check. Seconds later, she popped her head around the door, waved us over, but put a finger to her lips. We all crept to the doorway and saw the funniest, cutest sight—Michael had climbed into the crib, cuddled up next to Stacee, and fallen fast asleep. It was an angelic sight. Michael was 13.
His empathy, gentleness and connection with children were always an intrinsic and innocent part of him.
Jermaine Jackson, “You Are Not Alone”
Folks, I think this is it; this blog has developed Diabetes.