Eloquent about loss
Jul. 23rd, 2005 09:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fuzzyjayI'm cleaning up my room, in preparation for sleeping apart from my ex-partner. (We're still sleeping together after breaking up at the end of May... how weird is that?) We are going to split up the bedrooms. I'm going to get the large bedroom, and Dave is getting the two smaller rooms.
Part of cleaning out my room is going through layers and stacks of papers, sifting, winnowing, throwing out the chaff. One piece of paper I came across is about my friend Bill, who died of AIDS about 10 years ago. After he died, I cried every night for almost a year. Here's something my brother wrote... I wanted to post it here to give it more permanence, perhaps, than it will have on a piece of paper in my bedrooms current and future:
Dear Bill,
I can think of you. Lying here, just five minutes after being told you are dying of AIDS, my mind reconstructed your image coming across the yard to me. I know what your face looks like. I know how you hold your head and your body, especially how you walk. I know the kind of things that we would talk about, and what you would laugh at. I know what your laughter sounds like, and how much I like it. I even know what I could say to make you laugh. I can think, "this one will make Bill laugh." There are combinations of stories in my head that I would choose only for you. Thinking about you in my yard, I know which they would be, because you are that clear to me. My thinking of you brings forth a unique and rich stream of anecdotes, stories, and reminiscences that only can flow toward you, or not flow at all. And that is why I was crying just two sentences ago, because my thoughts of you will only be that... what we say to each other and how we are with each other is going to be a stream forever bottled up. For the rest of my life there will be a way I could be if you were with me, and a part of me that loves you enough to wish that you were.
Part of cleaning out my room is going through layers and stacks of papers, sifting, winnowing, throwing out the chaff. One piece of paper I came across is about my friend Bill, who died of AIDS about 10 years ago. After he died, I cried every night for almost a year. Here's something my brother wrote... I wanted to post it here to give it more permanence, perhaps, than it will have on a piece of paper in my bedrooms current and future:
Dear Bill,
I can think of you. Lying here, just five minutes after being told you are dying of AIDS, my mind reconstructed your image coming across the yard to me. I know what your face looks like. I know how you hold your head and your body, especially how you walk. I know the kind of things that we would talk about, and what you would laugh at. I know what your laughter sounds like, and how much I like it. I even know what I could say to make you laugh. I can think, "this one will make Bill laugh." There are combinations of stories in my head that I would choose only for you. Thinking about you in my yard, I know which they would be, because you are that clear to me. My thinking of you brings forth a unique and rich stream of anecdotes, stories, and reminiscences that only can flow toward you, or not flow at all. And that is why I was crying just two sentences ago, because my thoughts of you will only be that... what we say to each other and how we are with each other is going to be a stream forever bottled up. For the rest of my life there will be a way I could be if you were with me, and a part of me that loves you enough to wish that you were.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Eoquent about loss
Date: 2005-07-24 10:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-24 05:37 pm (UTC)And familiar. My brother-in-law died of AIDS in '90. His last year...I'd watch, take in, memorize and try to immerse myself in him - his joy, his pain, and his heart.
Tough stuff man.
Peace to you....
no subject
Date: 2005-07-30 11:08 pm (UTC)Re the still sleeping with the ex thing, its not weird. I do it, 6 nights in 10 at least. After breaking up 5 years ago.
Re the rest of this post: beautiful, and eloquent.