I have four young women who work for me. They are all in various stages of their early
lives: one recently married, another engaged, another just moved in with her
boyfriend. I hear about their lives and
I remember mine.
I want to tell them, keep it safe. Remember this. Remember what you do and how it feels. Write it down.
It just wasn’t that long ago when Mark and I, long ago,
packed our belongings and headed to California.
We found a place. We bought a
bed. We played backgammon and listened
to music and ate in restaurants. We
walked in AIDS walks. We went to the
gym.
I know now that the riptide was already there, undermining our
relationship. I didn’t know then, though. Then, we had our lives together and it was
okay.
And if he were alive, we could have talked about some of
this. We could compare notes and laugh
about things. The time he came home with
a Keith Haring figure on his arm from leaning on a wet poster. Our coworkers. Our computer, that failed so spectacularly
one day. The time we bought two megs of
RAM and felt like kings. Reading William
Gibson novels and Foucault.
We shared books and movies and experiences. For ten years before Charles was born, Mark and
I were together. Sharing. How about that morning I asked him about World
War I artillery. How about that time my
dad died and he picked me up from the airport with no expectations except to
hold me while I cried.
He was the only person who shared those memories with
me. Even the early years of kids. He is the only one who remembered the games
we used to play with Charles. Once Will
was born, Charles was old enough to remember, so I have someone I can talk to
about this…even if it is just a little.
Lately I have missed that comradery. I think the young women at work remind
me. It was not so long ago that long ago
Mark and I were together. Write it down,
I should tell them. Remember it. Keep it safe.
