Synchronicity

In February of ’98, fourteen months after John died, his boyfriend James decided to accompany me on a trip to New York City. It was my first trip there, and I would be meeting my on-line friends (and new writing partners) Tim and Timmy face-to-face for the first time. James had lived in New York years before, and his sister was still living there, so he planned to help me navigate through my first couple of days in Manhattan, then spend the rest of his vacation with her.

Before our trip, I decided to do something special for him. I had part of a shirt that had been John’s, made of a crimson, velvet-like fabric, that James had loved and cut up, giving a portion to me. I used a cuff, with its button and buttonhole, to make a tiny bag. I went to Wild Earth (a local metaphysical store) to look for some special stones to put into the bag. I love stones and crystals, and James and I had given each other a few in the past.

When I was shopping at Wild Earth, I ran into James. We exchanged a panicked look and a mutual, “What are YOU doing here?” Clearly, we were on a similar errand. We both sort of got lost from each other and never mentioned it again.

Until we boarded our plane a few days later. Once we were settled in our seats, I reminded James that I’m not a good flyer. His idea of comfort was to say, “If we go down, at least we’ll die together.” Of course I smacked his arm. Then, only minutes from departure, I reached into my purse just as he reached into his bag, both of us saying, “I wanted to give you something before we leave…”

Then we laughed, because he’d made a small bag for me from part of the collar of that same shirt of John’s, and tied it with gold thread I’d used to string together dried rosebuds from John’s memorial service. We traded our little red pouches, and he examined the stones and crystals I’d selected for him, while I smiled like an idiot and thanked him for this.