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
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
This stunning story of love and loss is exactly the kind of thing I was hoping to get on this blog. Thank you so much April for being trusting enough to share your inner feelings here. I've read and re-read your piece and love it more each time! Ariele
ReplyDeleteBeautifully written, April. Sorry about your loss.
ReplyDelete