Which is cruel, isn’t it? It’s like a muscle-bound bully who beats the shit out of you until you can barely move and then lets a child step in and deliver the final blow to knock you out.
He flips the photo over again and stares at it and the loving smile returns.
I can see the photo now. It’s a younger version of Mr. Street with his arms around a man a few inches shorter than him and a few years older. They’re both laughing. Their eyes are closed and their mouths are open. Sometimes a photo captures emotion so palpable that it can still be felt every time you look at it. That’s this photo; it’s pure joy.
Mr. Street catches me looking and turns it toward me. “This is my Henry.”
The way he says it and the way he’s looking at the photo with such love and pain in his eyes, I know Henry isn’t with us anymore. “How long were you together?” I ask because he needs to talk. And I need to sit down.
“Total, almost eight years. We met in Huntsville, Alabama in 1978 at a mutual friend’s Fourth of July party. Henry was charismatic, handsome, and had the politest Southern drawl I’d ever heard, and manners to match. I was smitten immediately. We lived together until he took a job in Miami in ’83. I made the choice not to go with him and we broke up. I was crushed and knew the moment he walked out the door that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. We reconciled a year later because we were miserable without each other and decided to start fresh in Denver. I lost him nine months ago. Not long before I moved into my current apartment.”
I know it’s probably impolite to ask, but he’s sharing and it feels rude not to participate in his story. “AIDS?”
He nods and a tear slips from the corner of his eye. Wrinkles form across his chin as sadness crumples it. “Henry got sick first. Watching someone you love suffer is the wickedest form of torture there is. It was horrible watching him wither away.” When he looks at me, his eyes are brimming with unshed tears and the pain in them is unbearable. His heartbreak is killing him far more than his body is.
I don’t know how to comfort when I can think clearly, and I most definitely cannot think clearly right now, but I do feel sad for him. I can’t imagine what he’s been through, what he’s going through. So I give him the truth. My truth. “He died knowing he was loved completely, and that was a gift. A gift that most people won’t get.” I won’t.
“Enough about me, Toby.” His breathing is shallow, even with the oxygen, and I want him to stop talking and not strain himself. “You look like I feel. What’s going on?”
For a second, I contemplate spilling it all, but I end up saying, “I’ve had a really shitty…” I pause when I almost say,life, but go with, “week,” instead because I don’t need to unload my dirty laundry on anyone, especially him.
His eyes are on me. Assessing me. I have to look away. “Yeah, me too,” he whispers.
I nod. His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Not that he meant them that way. He said it like he was commiserating. There was empathy in his voice, like what we’re going through is similar. Every minute this goes on drains me. The adrenaline spike that got me through the past hour or so has faded and I’m standing at the precipice of complete delirium.
“When did you last sleep?” he asks.
Without thinking, I answer honestly, “Two nights ago.”
“Why didn’t you sleep last night?” he probes.
“I had a lot on my mind.” When I say it my voice cracks. When I look him in the eye, I know that he heard it. I look away, ashamed. I want to leave; I’m going to lose it and I don’t want to cry in front of him.
“Like what?” he asks it gently like he already knows the answer.
I shake my head and I can’t stop. I keep shaking it while my lips pinch together and my face contorts in an effort to hold back the sobs.
“Holding it in gives it power, Toby. Talking about it takes that power away.”
The sob I let loose physically hurts. The single sob is followed by crying that has no sound. It’s crying so deep it’s bone-jarring, but by the time it reaches the surface, it’s mute. This emotion is immense, it’s an eruption deep inside me that can’t be fully expelled out into the light of day. I can’t focus. My eyes are blurry. My mind is blurry. My existence is blurry.
The hand on my shoulder is not.
It’s firm and grounding.
I didn’t hear the person behind me approach, but when they guide me to stand, I do.
And when they guide me to step into their arms, I do.
The hug feels unconditional.
And for a moment I let myself believe it’s my mom.
And that she’s proud of me.
And I cry some more.
The harder I cry, the harder I’m hugged.
