April 26th...

Today coming back from a run along the Hudson, walking home east of the river path back in the thick of traffic along 10th Ave, right at the exact intersection where I had the run-in last fall with the Angry Bicyclist, I see a blind man at the corner, tapping along the gutter with a cane, trying to cross the street.

I asked, “Do you need any help, sir?” and he said 

“Yes! Yes, thank you. I’m trying to cross the street. This is 55th, isn’t it?”. 

“Yes”, I say, “and we have the light”.

I extend my arm to him, arm to arm, so he can feel it alongside and take it. I don’t just grab his arm. I know not to do that. Ya know? I saw Scent of a Woman. Pacino and I even share the same birthday (yesterday). Lesson learned. Hoo-ah! Boy’s alive!

After we cross 55th, he says, “I’m just going to the D’Agostino’s market”. 

“D’Agostino’s is just halfway down the block. Are you okay?” I ask “Or would you like me to take you to the door?” 

“Oh, if you could help me,” he says, “that would be so kind”.

So I do. We nearly get knocked down by some guy flying out of Dunkin Donuts but pull up just in time. I take him to the automated doors and he makes his way inside thanking me and saying “Have a good day”.

I walk on wanting more than anything to call Summer and tell her all of this. But then in that moment I have a feeling that somehow she knows. And I tap my chest with my fist in the place where I felt that and look at the sky and say, “I love you, sweetheart”.

April 25...

April 25th. It used to be the day my grandfather, Hiriam Louis Milligan, baker, sentimentalist, antic soul (I told Summer almost from the first time we spoke that he would have adored her) - the epitome of Irish America – would decorate a cake for me, two layers, his strong tattooed forearms squeezing icing out of a pastry gun. A Louie cake was a total cert, a lock, if the day fell on a weekend. If it fell on a weekday, my mom would bake peanut butter cookies, pack them up along with a big bag of Tootsie Roll Pops and send me off to school- a post-recess treat for all my classmates. The added inclusion of the Tootsie Roll Pops was because Amy Cottier had a well known peanut allergy. Also, now that I think of it, her brother died when she was in 4th grade. I remember the teacher telling us in hushed tones once she’d left the room. Summer would’ve gotten on with her, too – the first kid I knew like myself who had a too early sense of their own mortality, a taste of tragedy in their mouth before they were ten. Amy was in my class from Kindergarten through 5th grade. I walked her home once. And got in trouble for crossing the Anthony Wayne Trail without permission.

Subsequent years found other rituals, most involving heavy drinking. A surprise party one year at Mike’s, a long-now-defunct bar on 10th Avenue, in the halcyon days of EST, even Curt was there. By the end, everyone was surly as hell and sniping at each other. Pretty goddamn hilarious in retrospect. Another year, the year I moved to New York but went back to DC for the day, I got mugged in broad daylight 4 blocks from the White House, just outside the McPherson Square Metro Station and spent a couple of hours in the GW emergency room getting my nose re-attached to my face. (“They can’t all be winners”, Summer wrote me, years later, the first year we were together but couldn’t be on this day.) In ’96 Uncle played at CBGB’s on the day. A surviving recording off the sound board includes our closer, a hopped-up cover of The Beatles’ “I Don’t Wanna Spoil the Party” by way of the Ramones and tells you everything you need to know about that band, far more than even the two records we released in the late 90’s.

Doubtless, the best April 25 of them all was the one spent with Summer in 2009. She took me to see Death Cab for Cutie in Sacramento. She stood in front of me and I wrapped my arms around her. We sang along to every song, crying and kissing over her shoulder and crazy in love. Then we decamped to the beautiful house in Davis where she made absurdly complicated and delicious chocolate chocolate chocolate molten chocolate with chocolate frosting and more chocolate cupcakes and we dozed on couches and in the garden and in her amazing bedroom and used up the bath bombs we got at Lush in Carmel in her spa and I cooked for her and we watched movies and drank each other in for several days. It was, like every day spent with her, the best part of my life.

Last year, of course, it fell on the day of Summer’s memorial. She was meant to be here in New York. We had tickets to see Low in Philadelphia at this great venue we’d heard about but had never been. It was a Monday, so it would be our day off – we were meant to be workshopping a new play of mine that week, Summer in the leading role. Instead, I was in San Francisco, at Brava, giving her eulogy. My friend Kim said at the time, when she found out that Summer’s memorial would be held on my birthday, that it was “somehow perfect”. At the time, I couldn’t quite hear that. I wasn’t mad or anything. I just didn’t see it. Now, today, I do. Of course. Of course.

What could this day ever be, what could this day ever mean now without Summer? Choke down some cake? Oh, sure. Drinking heavily... well, that’s not so good but the jury’s out. Fuck. I dunno. I was sober for 8 1/2 years. Summer used to tell me “I don’t believe you’re an alcoholic. I don’t get this. I think you should be able to have a drink. Like when you’re with me. And when you’re happy. Maybe only, at least, when you’re happy.” Summer wasn’t perfect, we didn’t always agree and she wasn’t always right. But damn near. Damn near. I’ll try, sweetie. 

What I do know is that Kim was right. What better way to observe it – indeed, what else – than to eulogize, to remember her, to speak of and think of her. Of Summer, of the girl who found me and saved me and changed my life. If only I knew what to do with what’s left of it. Without her. Without you, sweetheart. Oh, my girl! Beautiful, brilliant, miracle Summer. Until that day. Until that day...

Michael Louis Serafin-Wells April 25, 2012 - New York City 

Seattle...

In Seattle for a workshop of a play I wrote, in part, for Summer. Last time we were here together. Missing you so, my love. Always, always yours...

One Year...

One year ago today, The Light went out. My love, my treasure, my brilliant, gorgeous girl. Love you forever.

My angel...

"...When my mom died last year, I was in London. I got the news in the middle of the night. I was alone. I called Summer, eight hours behind, here. When I told her, she burst into tears. And then told me to get on Skype. “I want to see you drink an entire glass of water”, she said. “And lie down. And try to sleep. I’ll be right here at my computer watching you. I will watch you while you sleep.” She watched over me like an angel, a cyber angel, and when I woke she was there with Linda getting me on a plane to New York and then on to Michigan. Then Summer flew herself to Detroit and waited in the airport all night to meet my plane. And was at my side every day for a week while I buried my mother. Who does that? Serafin love. Irrepressible, irreplaceable girl..."

-from my memorial speech for Summer. Thinking of her so much today and every day.

The Last Day

The last day. I heard those words escape my mouth as I spoke to Danya in the hallway of SF Gen outside the ICU while we waited to see her. To see Summer, still alive, sitting upright, looking beautiful, looking only asleep. You couldn’t tell. My beautiful girl, only gorgeous. Even this couldn’t take that from her. Even if it could take her from me. From us. Her heartbroken already-lost-a-child-seen-too-much unimpeachable parents. No one ever had better parents. Genius hippies, UCLA champion athletes, turned doctors and novelists. Doting – I’ve said this before – would-take-a-bolt-of-lightening-for-parents. No one has parents like this. No, not even you. And Summer was so proud of them and grateful. Only a girl like her could have come from them –the finest man and woman I have ever known. Of course. Summer. Of course….

The last day. A year ago today. We woke – Summer & I – entwined. She liked to sleep on her side, her head on my chest and hold my hand. We remained that way as we woke.…

Later, I was making coffee. Summer & I ran lines for Blackbird. We had rehearsal at noon. We made our way downstairs and outside to the Rendezvous – the car I was borrowing from her parents while in town. Summer’s infamous, battle-scarred Prius remained in its parking space in the building’s garage. Hours later, I would be running down those stairs to her fallen side. Just now, she was hoisting her hoodie overhead, vigilantly protecting her amino-suppresant, perfect ivory skin. “My sunhat is in my car”, she said, dashing to the Rendezvous looking nothing less than like Zorro.

We drove to the Mission. We were in the wrong place. The space was double-booked. The director (Michael French – aka: “Frenchie”) made a call while we ran lines. Summer was tired and worried. She was doing another play – an adaptation of On The Waterfront at San Jose Stage – and this was a huge role. 86 pages. Two characters. She was freaking out. She was already brilliant, but she was worried about lines. It was happening too fast. We ran lines while Frenchie booked us rehearsal space at ACT – where Summer taught, where Summer had appeared in Stoppard’s Rock n Roll (and later on tour in Boston – she loved that job and was goddamn brilliant – I saw it 4 times in SF and 3 times in Boston), where Summer had been a teenage hero. I drove us there, parked us in the garage at Powell Street and we had the best rehearsal so far.

Blackbird is intimidating. We were blocked through pg 66. We rocked it. I know Summer felt it. We had two and a half weeks. We were gonna get there. Relief! We drove back to the Mission. Frenchie had a meeting there. Summer went to CVS to buy coconut water, the little sweetie. I found rush hour sidestreet parking and was on my phone to my New York landlord trying to schedule some bullshit because, apparently, the radiator in my ancient 5^th floor walkup had fallen into the apartment below. Swell. While I was talking, Summer beeped in – it was her last text to me. It said: “What’s going on? Can we go home?”. I ask myself this question everyday. I hung up and told her where I was. I found her. Do you wanna get some groceries and go home or do you want to go out to eat? Or both, I asked her.

It was early. Not even 5pm yet. We went to Andronico’s. I stopped her in the parking lot on the way in. We had done this before – caught in an embrace an older woman on her way back to her car had seen us and said “Oh, my god, I can’t take it! You are so cute!”. What can I say, it’s California. People aren’t so immediately assey. So resentful that someone might have found True Love. If only, I tell myself, if only I can, even after this, keep, grow some more California in my soul. I’ve said that more than once. Nobody ever knows what the fuck I’m talking about. Maybe I need some new friends. Maybe I need the girl who showed me that. Maybe I need my One True Love. Maybe I Just need Summer.

I grabbed her in the parking lot. I told her that I loved her. That I loved being with her. That I loved shopping with her. I said stuff like this to Summer all the time. I said it a few more times while we were actually in the store – sneaking her into the Men’s room because the Ladies was full, talking to the girl at the Cheese counter because Summer was flush – “I’ve got four cheques from four different theatres- I’m working!" – in the cookies aisle because there were Ginger Snaps, back in the parking lot because she’d been singing Adele all day.

I grabbed her again, lightly mocking the way she dropped from head voice into chest voice in the chorus of “Rolling in the Deep”. “I love it when you sing”, I said to her. We drove home to her apartment at Irving & 7^th in the Inner Sunset…

It was our last day. I said it, unbelieving, unaccepting, to Danya outside the ICU. But we were happy, working, in love. The beautiful life. I yearn for nothing but to be with her. To find us again.

Love you, my girl, my sweetheart, my One True Love, my only one, my beautiful, brilliant Summer, my Gingersnap, my redhead, my lover, my partner, my soul mate. It’s all for you, baby. Until that day. Until that day… Love you forever xo-m

In spirit...

Just back from Choral Evensong service I like to attend at beautiful, historic St Thomas Church on 5th & 53rd. They have a wonderful Men & Boys Choir and a truly lovely programme. An NYC alternative to London's St Paul's. I like to sit and cry and hear the music, the lesson, the readings and quietly say Summer's name, and whisper prayerfully to my little sweetheart, little sweetie. We will be together again someday...

http://saintthomas.bndpr.com/odmp3/Mar/20120307.mp3