I Do

In a small informal ceremony in my dreams last night, little sweetheart, you married me. A few of us and your mom and dad were gathered in a long, narrow, pretty room that reminded me of one of your beautifully appointed walk-in closets. We were waiting for your entrance and I sneaked around the corner and stole a glimpse of you standing alone awaiting your cue, breathtaking, in a gorgeous dress. You looked up, startled, and then smiled and said "No peeking." The Most Impatient Girl told me I had to wait. That, as ever, seems like a sign. You're always telling me something, aren't you, my love? Always teaching me. What a wonderful dream, my little sweetheart. Thank you. Yes, no peaking. I'll see you soon...

End times

I'm meeting up with our friend Graeme tomorrow, little sweetheart. I'm meeting him at the Renaissance diner. Remember that place, my darling? We got take out there a couple of times and maybe even sat in one of the booths at least once. I remember that you found something you really liked on the menu. I can't remember exactly what it was just this minute, I'll need to think about that. But I remember waiting for our food to come up and introducing you to someone I noticed sitting there who I hadn't seen in ten years. A few years later I saw him again and had to tell him that that beautiful little red headed girl I had been with had passed away. 

It's a terribly sad story that I've had to tell over these last four years and eleven months since you left this world. Whenever I see someone who I haven't seen in a long long time and they ask how I am, if they really insist on wanting to know, I have to tell them because that's what's going on. I'm still and forever in mourning for you my darling. 

And tomorrow I'm seeing Graeme. He was very kind in those first days and months. And when your mom came out to see me in that play it was Graeme (and Jason too) that were so attentive and kind and friendly to her. 

I actually haven't seen Graeme in a while. I was going to say a year but it might actually be two. And the Renaissance is a place where I've met up with him before. And that's what I was thinking of just now and wanted to write down and tell you. 

One of the first times I sat down with Graeme after I got back from your memorial was at the Renaissance. We sat there and I tried to eat but mostly what I did was cry. I wept, my little sweetheart. I bawled. I keened. Horribly. I'm thinking of the sound I made. It was like a dog. A heartbroken, lost, miserably alone, frightened animal. A poor poor sad little dog who had lost everything and couldn't find his way home. Lost! So so lost! The sound I made was a howl. A wailing. The saddest, most mournful imaginable. Because I was so lost without you. 

For years and even now I can feel how near I am to that place of total despair. I try not to touch it, or rev it or bring it on. But I also never want to really lose it. Somehow the pain has a thread to you. 

Maybe I'm wrong. Will you tell me, little sweetheart, if I am? Will you tell and guide me? May I call to you? Am I living as you want me to? I wear your handwriting on my flesh. Your words are tattooed into each forearm. Your pictures and many of your things surround me. I don't want to ever get used to it. 

Please be with me, please remind me. Please take me to you. I'm having chest pains more and more often and I welcome them. I rejoice because I hope it means soon may be my time to join you. 

There's still much to do in making a testament to you. The records we're working on, the long-by-fits-and-starts memoir I've promised. I must do all this, I know. But most importantly I must honor you and pray and meditate and be mindful and quiet and listen for you. And remember. And remember. And remember. Always. Forever. Always. 

Tonight, again...

I haven't seen this movie, little sweetheart, since I watched it with you. We rented and brought it when Chris & Sheri invited us over to dinner, remember? It was kind of a double date, I guess. It's really just a nice, little film- not an epic one. But I remember now that I liked the music so much. And you did too. It was stuff I already knew but songs like Alex Chilton's "I'm in Love With A Girl" took on such bigger resonance because you found and held me close to you. I remember crying every time I heard it after that. I remember crying so often just being with you because I was so overwhelmed with love. Sometimes I'd cry because we had to say goodbye for a few days or weeks but I could cry just to be in your arms. Now I cry with such longing for you, my love. And all I remember. But that night I remember that this Cure song came up under this very scene. Chris said something like "who knew The Cure wrote any happy songs " and you just looked at me and smiled because I'd just played "It's Friday, I'm in Love" for you and it was our song of the moment. We heard it everywhere after that. At Trader Joe's. At that place we liked in the Marina. Suddenly it was everywhere. Just as suddenly as we had become us. As suddenly there was you.

Feb 14th

Little sweetheart, it's Valentines Day and I am missing you. And I'm remembering that you and I went to Lake Tahoe on my first vacation with your family for Valentines seven years ago. Our "Trip to the Snow" we called it. It was lovely. You and I were the last to arrive. We drove up from SF after you finished teaching your class at ACT. We'd been walking past the window outside Macy's on O'Farrell and I'd watched you eyeing a cute bra and panties set on display there. It was black and pink and very Valentines pretty. So, I secretly went back and bought it for you and had it in a gift-wrapped box when I picked you up after your class in the car. It was late afternoon and it started to get dark and snowy as we made our way up through the mountains, remember, my darling? When we stopped for gas, there was a rack of novelty shades, so I bought you a pair of pink Valentines sunglasses. I asked the cashier if she had ever seen as beautiful a girl as you. The Bon Iver record had come out and we had it on in the car on repeat. We sang and cried and held each other. It was our first Valentines together. Our last was five years ago today. We would have less than one month left together on earth. We couldn't know. We couldn't know. Oh, my little sweetheart, do come to me soon! Take me with you in The Forever. For now, I see through a glass, darkly. But then, I will know even as I am known. As you know. Please show me the way. Show me everything. Show me all you know and let me learn. Until that day! Until that day!

Another place

I get so anxious, little sweetheart, if you don't appear in one of my dreams for a while. I fear that I'm doing something - or maybe everything - wrong! Living in a way that you dislike or that makes you not want to be near. I fear that you will say I may not call to you. I worry about that, my darling, because I know I make so many many mistakes. And I'm so sorry when I do. I ache to think of them. So I try to do my best. 

I've been a bit under the weather this week, little sweetheart. So, I've been fairly housebound. And you have been in my dreams! I'm so grateful for that! I can't ever remember my dreams nearly as well as I wish I could but I know you have been with me. And you were last night, little sweetheart. You told me there was "another place where we could live". You said it with the most delightful smile, as if you had a special secret you couldn't wait to tell me all about. I think it was in answer to something I asked. I might've asked if you wanted to move in here or get a new place in Brooklyn or even live in California or Seattle or somewhere. And you smiled and said, you know of "another place where we can live". 

This morning I woke and I tried to write it all down, as much as I could remember. It's February 12, today, little sweetheart. Five years ago this morning I was getting on a plane to meet you, to go to the screening of our film at The Castro, to see you in "On the Waterfront", to plan our next project here, to bring you home. I couldn't know. I couldn't know. 

But last night in dreams, as you were close and eating frozen yogurt (!) you told me that there is another place where we can live. Take me there, won't you? 

With all my love... m

Kind Words

My little sweetheart, there's a very nice lady - I don't know if I ever told you this - at the Credit Union, where I do my banking. She always asks very kindly and intently how I'm doing. I'll tell you why. After my mom died, I changed over my official papers there to make you my sole beneficiary. This lady was the one who was there the day I did it. Then, of course, tragically came the events of March 2011, just months after. I went back to change them again, this time designating the Memorial Transplant fund your parents started in your name at the University of Minnesota as such. This nice lady wondered if I was okay. Why was I changing things again so soon. And I told her the sad story. I'm sure I probably wept just standing there talking through the glass. She helped me that day and she never forgets to ask how I'm doing. How your parents are doing. She's very kind, my sweetheart. And I love talking about you! I'm so proud of you. So proud to have loved you - I always will! So proud to hear you call me your partner. And I remember the great kindnesses you routinely showed people. You did so much to help my heart, my darling. Little kind encounters like this remind me. And I feel so very close to you. Know you're near. Far nearer than I can imagine.

An Anniversary of Sorts...

Little sweetheart, today is my sobriety anniversary. I have funny feelings about it, especially when I think about what you might say. I was sober for 5 years before I met you and all through our time together you said you didn't think I was an alcoholic, that I should be able to have a drink with you (and you didn't even drink hardly ever, so there's that...) or with your folks at Christmas or on some special occasion and even get a bit drunk. "It's okay when you're happy," you said, "just don't drink when you're sad". And I think I understand that now, my love. Because when I was with you I was so very very happy. I was safe. I think I clung to sobriety at that point because it was tied into who I thought I was. My self-identifying as The Guy Who Doesn't Drink. Like a lot of things I regret, that has more to do with ego than what's real or right. The real thing is love. Our love. The great gift of you and my gratitude - there can never be enough - for your finding and loving me. After the tragedy, my little sweetheart, I'm afraid I did quite a lot of drinking. And I certainly wasn't happy. And didn't you tell me, my darling not to do that? So, I feel a bit better this time having stopped. It's two years today, little sweetheart. I'll wait to have a little drink with you when we're together again. I know you like White Russians, especially at Christmas, or a little mulled wine. Is there a nice cozy place for a drink there in The Forever, my darling? Will you take me sometime? Love you with all my heart and soul...