Just one tear. . . .

I was at dinner tonight with MyFella and his family. For some reason, MyFella and his mother had a brief conversation about people who had passed away, or are passing away. They were talking about accepting death, or not accepting it, and how they do or don't miss people who have died. . . and my mind drifted. . .

to Mrs. Edna. I think actually she was never married, but certainly should have been called Mrs. She was. . . going over to her brother's house one day. I can't quite remember his name. He had rented the house across the street from my childhood home. The small rental was owned by the neighbors directly to our left, which was the cap-end of the cul-de-sac type street we lived on.

I think it was my brother who reached out to her first. It would be his way. I can see it. My recollections tell me that the man traveled maybe, or just wasn't home a lot, and one of his two sisters, Mrs. Edna, came over a few times a week to do something for him. I have the impression she helped clean his house or maybe made some meals. Who knows the things sisters will do for their brothers.

And the next thing you know, we were constant companions in her great big car. I remember it being a big silver grey Buick, 4 door. I remember adventures in that car, mostly cropped pictures in my head. I can't quite recall . . . I recall a feeling more than actual memories.

I remember a fresh water spring down a gravel road, and trips to the banks of the river. I remember Saturday and Sunday afternoons, my brother and I in her big car, wherever she took us.

I think that she passed away while I was in college. And I think I had not seen her in too long, long enough to be ashamed of it, looking back.

And tonight I miss her. I was surprised to have thoughts of her, and surprised when the tear rolled down my cheek.


July 31, 2010.

Stereotypically gay . . .

I stopped last night at a quick stop on some highway in what definitely seemed like rural Mississippi. Behind the counter were 3 kids who all looked like high school seniors to me. Two girls, one boy. The boy had as much sass in his stance as in his hair style and exuded gay vibrations. I couldn't help but think, "I bet this firefly lights up his little hometown."

Then today I was having lunch with MyFella at a local restaurant when he pointed out the postmaster. Oh, my my. I'd say middle 30's, dressed in very nice black slacks that fit him well (fitting perfectly over a nice butt) and a pull over white shirt. He had dark hair, a very pleasing profile and a bit of a goatee. This man was handsome. Not overbearingly so, just the right amount of good looking with the right amount of good, well fitting clothing. I couldn't help but thinking if I lived in this town, I'd be going inside the post office to mail every single letter I write.

Not So Different

It's been a long time since I've been in a divey gay bar with a pool table. But in my day, I've been in them many a time.

Come to find out, it's much like being a Legion Hall on a Friday night, except without the flags and military emblems.

Same smoky atmosphere, cheap, shoddy construction and sickly sweet smell from air fresheners in the bathroom.

We're not different, straights and gays.

"Emergency Contact"

It must be love. I listed him as the Emergency Contact with my new physician's office.

15 year old jackpot.

I had dinner tonight with one of my closest friends and her two sons. Turns out the 15 year old has a young friend girl who may think he's cute. She's broached the "maybe more than friends" comment with him.

And she's bi.

I couldn't be more proud of him if he was my own son.

Wonder

I wonder sometimes, what my life would be like if I had never moved away from my hometown? I wonder sometimes, who would my close friends be? How would I spend my time? Whose lives would I have impacted? And how?

Just how different would it be?

The Box.

The box was rectangle, probably 4 inches high, and 4X6. Maybe smaller, maybe larger. A dark brown, like a mahogany maybe. Simple, yet sturdy and beautiful.

My mother said, "They want to bring the box and the pictures over to the Parrish Hall." She had the signature book in her hand, and someone took the pictures and she asked me to pick up the box.

The service was concluded, and everyone was walking next door for the lunch always put on by the ladies of the church for a funeral. He was just over 35 years of age. He lived a youth very much entwined with my own. Our fathers forged a friendship having worked together for many years on the police department, our mother's friends. I suppose, really, from our parents perspectives at the time, they were creating their lives and their families together in our hometown.

Many, many days spent together. In the older years, my brother was in closer contact with him than I. They were slightly closer in age. And sometime over 10 years ago I left our hometown.

His life's journey took an odd path. Struggles with demons of depression and other things made his life harder than anyone's should be. Struggles with the medication made his days harder than they should be. And then of course, when they feel better, they quit taking the medicine. It's a brutal, hard cycle.

It's an ugly way of life for a beautiful person.

It ended this week in a tragic way, a way that can never be undone. One of his friends said, "It's like being a teenager and wanting a beer. I'm going to get it." He said something like, once, "I told him I would come right there. But what about the next time?"

My mind wanders to episodes of Dr. Who, who sometimes said that he could see when things are a "fixed point in time." And like others, I wonder about the "what?" and the "if's?" Would it be a fixed point in time, if we could go back? But then, don't we wonder that with almost every loss? Natural losses? Accidents? Tragics that don't make sense? What? If?

The box was heavier than I imagined it would be. He was beautiful.