IT IS VALENTINES DAY--I REMEMBER YOU
Today is Valentines Day. Last night, I saw the full moon
shine with a glow from the past. I think of how much I miss you. I think of the
time we had together when we thought the world was ours forever. I think of the
years you were on oxygen twenty-four hours a day, each breath a reminder time
doesn’t stand still.
I remember the first month you were gone. You left Sydney and me at three
o’clock in the morning on December 27, 2012, while at Evergreen Hospice for a
week, after surrendering to your brave battle with chronic obstructive pulmonary
disease. The moon was full, a bright light to guide you on your journey. I felt
hollow and empty. You were my rock. You were my safe harbor. I was lost in a
sea of tears, every breath a reminder of your encouraging smile. I still wish
for one more minute--one more day--one more year--an endless amount of time
through eternity when we were healthy, dancing in the kitchen to our own
rhythm. I hold on to your memory like a life-saver.
I met you when I was twenty-two, you were thirty, the year was 1968, strobe
lights flickered over the dance floor as we smiled, dancing to bass beats
pounding, voices singing poetry into each heart. We were members of a secret
tribe, changing partners to dance when the police walked in the front door. No
commitments back then, we were free spirits chasing new adventures each night;
the sexual revolution was blooming. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought
I would get married, have children, and be like everyone else. Somehow I
thought I was going through a phase, like a full moon.
It was a time when people only exchanged first names, keeping personal information
to a minimum from fear of being blackmailed or losing a job for being in the
wrong place at the wrong time or beaten-up by the self-righteous or even
murdered. No big neon lights above the door announcing welcome to the local gay
bar, relax, have a drink. No warm, safe feeling when policemen walked through
the bar, out the back door. A ripple of fear followed crisp blue uniforms to
the alleyway, expecting to see human garbage lurking in the shadows needing to
be arrested, placed behind locked steel doors, or deserving to be beaten with a
billy club. Lost, lonely spirits made it past a maze of obstacles to a circle
of friends for comfort, protection, and a few hours of feeling accepted. Eyes
met across the room, shooting Cupid’s arrow to an empty heart hiding behind a
secret life.
Dancing slow dances at the Golden Horseshoe. Hearts beating to three songs for
a quarter playing on a glowing blue light jukebox. Titles were selected, giving
courage to ask temptation to step together in an embrace on a small crowded
dance floor. Hands sweat. Music plays so
loud, conversations can’t be heard--murmurings imitate sentences, heads shake
with silent answers, smiles acknowledge something was said. A few drinks, fear
melts away; three dances become an introduction to true love; time speeds fast
forward to last call. With luck from the heavens, I woke-up snuggling with you,
my Yvonne. Leaving in the morning with a throbbing hangover, back to another
rule to live by: If you see someone away from the bar, act like you don’t know
them, be a daylight blur in the crowd. But oh, the nights, the magic of the
dance.
For six months, my heart skipped a nighttime beat, living a dream. I woke-up
mornings, looking at you in wonder, saying your full name like a mystical
chant. No shadow of daylight blurring the stars in my eyes. Your decision to
return to Australia burst the bubble of happiness filling my heart. I was
twenty-two, left alone with the memory of your smile, prepared to change partners
for the next dance.
Twenty-eight years later, I was fifty years old, living alone for ten years,
feeling depressed, empty from a life filled with ups and downs. You had been
watching a channel nine PBS program. The end credits listed April Ryan--graphic
artist. You looked up my phone number, called thinking I was a talented PBS
artist, but didn’t seem disappointed hearing I was a Metro bus driver. We spent
a few weeks talking on the phone. I felt anxious making plans to meet after so
many years. On the inside, I was a thin twenty-two-year-old, drinking beer and
dancing under strobe lights. On the outside, I was a fifty-year-old bus driver
with a sore back and seventeen years of sobriety. I wondered if you expected
time to have stood still since 1968.
We met for lunch at Thirteen Coins Restaurant, where years before we had
dinner, ordering Steak Sinatra ala Mia, drinks, and bottles of wine. This time
you were waiting in the lobby, reaching out to shake my hand. I was having none
of that, pulling you in for a heart throbbing hug. No Steak Sinatra on the
menu. It was 1996, new famous names, but I didn’t care what was on the menu; I
was fifty years old, ready to burst with excitement like a giddy school girl!
I told my mother I wanted her to meet the woman I planned to spend the rest of
my life with. She had us come to her house for a “my daughter loves you and
wants us to meet” dinner. I sat on the couch, holding your hand. I had never
before, not with men, or other women, held anyone’s hand in front of my mother.
I was fifty years old, finally holding the hand of someone I loved and adored.
It was a monumental moment for me, expressing I was ready to start a new, open
life without guilt or shame.
One night, your dear friend June invited us for dinner to celebrate our new
relationship. June was cooking sizzling New York steaks, when you said, “I just
can’t get used to April’s gas!”
I about fell out of my chair. GAS! How could you tell June about my having gas
when you hadn’t said anything to me? I looked at you so hard I am sure my
eyes were bulging out of my head!
“What do you mean?” I whispered like it was a hidden national secret.
“Well,” you said, “I’ve never cooked with gas before.”
“You’re talking about cooking with gas? I thought you meant I have gas! I
wondered why you would tell that to June in front of me!” We laughed so hard
tears ran down our cheeks.
For the longest time, when we visited June, she’d open the door asking, “Have
you gotten used to April’s gas yet?”
You got used to more than my gas. We got our dog Sydney when you retired in
1999. We bought a home together. You helped hold my spirits up when my mother
was ill with Lou Gehrig”s Disease. When mom died at Evergreen Hospice ten years
ago, you told me, “If I need to be in a hospice, I’d want to be in a place like
this.” You encouraged me while I helped my stepfather live with a stroke at
Harbor Point Assisted Living. You were put on oxygen in March of 2005. You were
brave, loved, and adored by Sydney and me.
The list of our common values was much longer than our differences. I was more
Tinker Bell, you were more Thinker. We traveled to Mexico, Hawaii, and your
beautiful Australia. I didn’t expect a long wonderful adventure after I turned
fifty. We were a great team, we loved each other and were comfortable together.
On this Valentine's Day, I think of you.
I see you flash your beautiful smile, our eyes meet. We dance together, once
again. Holding each other, forever I am twenty-two. My heart skips a beat.
February 14/2014 April Ryan
By
Roger Wilson
