It’s amazing what the mind recalls. June 14 marks the twentieth year since our friend Steve R died. And though I’d have to put effort into remembering what I did yesterday, I vividly remember the details of that summer day.
I recently told a friend that when someone I love dies, for a while afterward, it’s as if time slows down. And though unexpected death is shattering, most of my experience with loss hasn’t been that way. In fact, it has been my honor to be present when several people left this world, and I do mean honor. Whatever one’s beliefs, there’s something quietly sacred in those moments of a last, peaceful goodbye.
They are also private moments, and though I’ve written about Steve’s death in poetry, mentioned it online, and shared some of the details with friends and those who love him, I hope I’ve never infringed on that privacy. Today I received a card written by his mother, from both his parents, and it reminded me again of their integrity, their sweetness, and their love for their son. They still miss him. They always will. I will, too.
After leaving the hospital that day, our friend Geraldine and I went to tell Geof that it was over. We picked him up from work, tried to eat something, and ended up at Geof’s apartment. I remember Geraldine whispering to me, “Whatever he wants to do, just do it.” I nodded, and that’s how I somehow ended up doing a Tarot reading for Geof at his request from the cards pictured. (Geof loved anything Egyptian, and the Egipcios Kier deck is based on Egyptian symbols, letters, and hieroglyphs.) Tarot cards are not something at which I have any actual skill, but I’ve always considered them a way for a person to self-evaluate, much like meditation, dreams, journals, even therapy. To me, it’s another tool of discovery.
Although getting out the Tarot cards was a good distraction for us all–a chance to stand back from the emotional intensity of that day–I remember Geof’s reading as being extremely difficult and complex. When I took these cards out today to get a photo, I couldn’t understand why. They seemed pretty straightforward as I flipped through them. Then I looked at the book, and I noticed how small the print is, how dense the information, and I realized that it’s those words again–they’re always adding layers and possibilities, conflicts and challenges, more questions than answers.
Honestly, I don’t know why I love words so much.
I just do.
Thinking of you, Steve, and sending boundless love your way, and all good thoughts to Geraldine, Geof, and all those who miss you still.
thoughts of you and Steve.
Thanks. What a journey it’s been, huh?
Pretty regularly, I wonder what our life would be like if Steve, and everyone else, was still living with us in the ‘hood.
Steve died at 44. He’d be 64 now. We used to make jokes about the Beatles song. We would still love him. Think how many things have changed in the neighborhood over these twenty years. He wouldn’t recognize it! He’d no longer be close enough to walk to Larry’s to get his hair cut, but I’d give him a ride. His same apartment is still just down the street from us.
Jeff died one week before his 33rd birthday and would be 50–50! Can you imagine Jeff at 50? He would have bought and resold all that property and be quite the mogul. Boy, did he predict that real estate situation correctly. Just think of how many times he could have fired and rehired me by now?!?
Tim R was 34 when he died and would be 49 now. I think the house he lived in is gone. I haven’t driven into that neighborhood in years. The world with fifteen more years of him would be a better place. It’s nice to imagine the friendship that would exist between him and Timothy J Lambert. I’ll bet they’d go to the gym together.
John had just turned 31 before he died and would be 47. That boggles the mind. I’m sure his eyes would still twinkle. Heaven knows all the mischief he’d have gotten up to–the stories would be great.
I hate AIDS.
I find it appalling and amazing that you have lost so many people at such a young age. AIDS is a terrible disease.
At the time they died, I really was at a young age, and so were they. It’s terrible to contemplate all the brilliant and lovely people AIDS has taken from the world.