You

I don't really know you.
I know how beautifully you've written down your thoughts.

I don't really know you, but I call you a friend.
Your encouragement started me on this path - to write these "memories."

I don't really know you, but I love you.
Soul to soul, with no other reason than we are alive on this planet.

I don't really know you, but I am thankful for you.
Thank you for being there to find.

You know who you are.

Spoiler

It was the Christmas I insisted on no girl presents for me. I wanted only things that a boy would like. I just wanted you to get the message to Santa. He'd been leaving me girl stuff forever and I was sick of it.

My sister was taking her nap when you whispered for me to follow you to a small closet at the back of the house. Inside there were dolls, some dresses and a toy both my sister and I had gone nuts for after seeing it on TV. It was the Flintstone's Dino, the perky purple dinosaur with the baby blue eyes. That toy was a jumbo sized, battery powered, walking, talking, little kid's wet dream. As I reached for it you said, "Oh no! These toys are for your sister. Do you think she'll like them?" I was confused - her birthday was in May and it was December.

And just like that - you spoiled Christmas.
At least you honored my request for boy toys.

You really should have known I could not keep a secret.
I didn't tell her she was getting Dino.
I told her there was no Santa.

The chair

Remember that night at dinner when my sister and I were fighting about which chair we were going to sit in? You got mad and said "what does it matter which chair you sit in?" I answered "neither of us wants to sit by you!"

I would give anything to be able to sit next to you now.

Be happy

I used to say you were crazy, that you were verbally abusive, that you hated sex, that you treated me like your slave, that you threatened me with a steak knife.

It made it easier to accept what I put you through. I realize the ending was abrupt for you, but once I realized I could end our marriage, I was on-board.

You must see it now - we were too young. On my end, I was in love with the idea of being in love. When we were in High School I loved being your girlfriend. I loved hanging out with you listening to music. I loved going on ski trips with you and driving trips to Kansas and laughing together about how funny all our relatives were. I did not know what being in love meant. I knew the cheerleaders all had crushes on you.

I wanted to get married because we'd had sex. My mother had told me only engaged couples should have sex. You had free will. You could have said no. It was obvious when we walked back down the aisle and you were crying that you were having second thoughts.

We were married for less than 2 years. I don't remember us being "happily" married for any of it. So here I am, 34 years later telling you - sorry. Sorry for making you miserable. Sorry for how horrible I was at the end. Sorry for being unfaithful and hurtful. Sorry for making you feel you needed to take all our money and the car and my motorcycle. Sorry for making you feel so angry that you called my father in an attempt to get him to commit me. Sorry for being such a horrid person that your family erased me from their lives. Sorry it took years for you to let go and move on. I'm sorry I spent most of my 20's looking over my shoulder and expecting you to be following me.

If you are reading this - be happy I left.

Cilantro

The taste of cilantro equals guilt.
Even the smell of it makes me feel sick.

I'd never had cilantro before your wife put it into the salad she served that night. Everything else about that night, even down to the stolen kiss in the kitchen - been there, done that. But I'd never had a wife catch me kissing her husband. And having her then tell my husband, well you get the picture. Guilt.

Somehow we all got past the scene. We stayed friends, or at least my husband, you and I did. Your wife did not come to your performances and we never again came to your house for dinner. I drove by that house a few months ago. It was inspiration for my very first entry. But my main memory of that house is not the night we ate cilantro, it's the night you and I... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Your musical comedy group was a local favorite. My husband and I were musicians then. It was more of a hobby for us, but we went out every week to drink and enjoy music and comedy and everything else the bay area in the 70's had to offer.

We made friends with all the guys in your group, but we were closest to you. And you and I? We had something else going on. Denial was our game. We were loosing. That night, before the kiss in kitchen, you were playing songs on your piano and singing. I sang along with you - a harmony you'd never considered. You asked if I would get up on stage and sing it the next time I was in the audience. Duh.

Your group was girl bait. Dozens would pack themselves into the front rows just to be close to you. You were the main writer for the group and even through you did not sing that love song in performances, everyone knew it was your song. Sad and sweet. The only non-humor song in your set. The night I sang it for the first time was heaven. I was the only girl who ever sang with your group. The front row girls wanted to hate me, but I was them when I sang. I belted how it felt to be near you. It was electric.

I was invited up to sing that song every performance after that. I never tired of it. But the denial game was getting harder and harder to play. I found myself standing close to you near my car at the end of a night, heart pounding, body weak. It started with touch. A spark flew between us when our skin met. We even looked alike with our thin, heart-shaped faces and sharp noses. The day I cut my long curls off, I walked into the club to find you'd just cut your long curls off as well. Secret smiles. Longing looks. We were smitten. Well, I'll admit I was.

When your group recorded it's first album, my husband was your recording engineer. I was the artist who did your album. I traveled with your band by car up to Santa Rosa for the photo shoot. We sat so close, and you held my hand. It was so much more to me than flirting. It felt bigger. It felt like fate.

When my husband and I broke up, it was not over you. He knew you and I were close, but he while he was ok with it, your wife was not. You and I had done nothing more than steal a kiss or too, but she, unlike my husband, she could see the depths of emotion behind it.

There were other men in my life by then and unlike you, I was newly separated and free. When she called suggesting we get together, I was open to becoming friends with her. I cared enough for you to want you to be happy. Maybe my becoming friends with her, I could let go of the huge crush I had on you. When she showed up at my door, her agenda was not to be friends. We were at war. I was to stay away from you. It seems when you traveled with the band, you were allowed to sleep with anyone girl you met on the road. You were allowed this as long as you never kept in contact with them or slept with the same girl twice. Her story was bizarre, but it was clear I was a threat to the balance that kept you two together.

I felt ambushed. And her words had the opposite effect from her intention. Game on.

Months passed, and I found myself at a fourth of July party a bit out of control. Drugs of the day were pot and cocaine. The later was new to me. I was buzzed when I came home to find your message on my machine. "Deb, I am home alone and want to see you. Will you come over?" Duh

You, my friend, were wasted. The bottle on the piano was almost empty and your words were coming out sideways. But this was a moment I'd dreamed of. I was alone with you. I'm not sure I'd call what we had "sex." It wasn't really possible with the two directions we found ourselves in. At the time, it was all a delightful turn of events. It brought me to the place where I knew in my heart I wanted you as a friend and not a lover.

I gathered my things and was headed out the door when you said,"I had sex with you, so now I can never talk to you again."

I laughed it off. I thought it was the booze talking. I was in the audience at your next performance, but when the love song was played I was not invited to come on stage. Not only would you not acknowledge my existence, but the entire band seemed to look right through me. Maybe your wife's words had been a warning for me.

My (ex)husband became a regular guest performer with your band. He got to be the friend I had wanted to be until you moved away. Has it really been 26 years? When I drove past your house, it felt like I'd been there the night before.

I could still taste the cilantro.

Heart and soul

Sometime at the start of Junior High, we became friends.

Thrown together by a love of music, Jewish fathers, Presbyterian Sunday school - we were a team. You were the accompanist for the choir. I sang lead soprano. We both played flute in the school band. You were the only kid I knew with a piano in her room. I had always wanted to play piano, but even in my wildest dreams I would never would have equaled your talent. It was like music just gushed from your fingers through the keys and filled the room. You humored me - letting me play the easy part of piano duets.

Years we spent - you on the keyboard and me singing. All our spending money went toward sheet music. We performed at church, at Lion's Club meetings, at Rotary Club meetings. If there was a meeting that needed entertainment - we were there.

Boys came and went, but you were a constant. My love for you was fierce. We shared our teens together.

When I began dating the guy I later married, you did not approve. Perhaps it was the hormones - mine seemed to bloom before yours. What was driving me was not yet driving you. That afternoon, in your family's basement we were sitting on the couch talking when I saw the fear in your eyes. You thought you were losing me to him. And in that moment I wanted to do something to show how I felt about you. I wanted to kiss you.

My body was on auto-pilot. My face was aready leaning towards your's when I stopped myself. This was a side of me I'd never shared. What if you did not like me? What if you did? In that moment I knew things would never be the same for us. Instead of kissing you, I took a deep breath and told you I wanted to kiss you.

The phrase "bum's rush" comes to mind when I remember how quickly you got me to leave. We never talked about it. Which meant I never got to deal with the pain I felt. I was more like you than anyone in my world, now I was like no one. And worse, I disgusted you. We continued performing together. We were still in every music and drama group. But the distance that afternoon created only grew larger. And my life continued on it's chaotic path.

I locked that part of me away for a long time.

FBF

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours"

You should not feel bad. I started it. I just wanted to know what all the fuss was about. I knew my father had expected me to be born a boy. I should have been a boy. At the age of six it seemed so simple. I would become a boy. First step was seeing what you had that I didn't.

We locked ourselves in your family's bathroom and I went first. I pulled down my shorts, sat on the toilet - and peed. You watched. Your turn - you opened your zipper, faced the toilet - and peed standing up. I was instantly jealous. You showed me you had a little flesh hose you shot pee out of. What happened to my hose? Did my parents have it removed? Would I grow one? Was this what was so wonderful about being a boy?

I taught myself to pee standing up.
I climbed every tree I could find.
I dug in the dirt.
I collected bugs and snakes and lizards.
I jumped off everything.
But I could not grow a flesh hose no matter how much I wanted one.

My parents and your's called you a "book worm." Ridiculous! I read more books than you! They called me "tom boy." Who was Tom and what did he have to do with my wanting to be a boy? I was supposed to be named Paul. That was the name my parents had decided on if I was a boy. Why wasn't I named Paula?

In the sticky Kansas summers, all our moms would push us outside telling us to, "go play." Your house was always my first stop. You were my friend and a boy, but not my boyfriend. I was much more interested in the pretty girl that lived behind your house. You could not understand why I was interested in her. I guess I wasn't sure either. As a boy, I thought you'd think she was pretty.

I was devastated when I was not invited to her birthday party. You were."Go play" put me outside that day with no one to play with and too much free time. I snuck through your yard to spy on the party. She was wearing the most beautiful white dress I had ever seen. Her hair was all pins and curls with ribbons. Her shoes were shiny with buckles. There was a cake on the table and piles of presents. I was jealous of her and you and everyone at that party for getting to eat that cake.

She saw me in my dirty play clothes hiding in the bushes. She sent a group of boys after me. As a kid I told my mother they took off their belts to hit me, but I'm sure they just chased me. And threw rocks. I thought my mom would be proud I'd gotten away from them, but she was angry. I'd embarrassed her. "Debbie, tell me why you were spying on girl and her party?" I knew girls were not supposed to like girls. And like it or not, I was a girl.

You never told my secrets.
You never acted like I was a freak.
You were my first best friend.

Patterns

In the beginning, there was you.

I longed for you and the delicious scent that got stronger the closer you got. Flowers, you smelled like flowers. I passed time waiting for the moments you would hold me. In your arms I was your precious. I was your little Debbie. Tight against your chest - your warmth, lyrical voice and the gentle bouncing comforted me. I had no words then, only thoughts, images, senses.

I remember the roundness of your face, and your dark eyes and black and silver glasses. I remember how your curls framed your face. I remember your fingers running through my curls and how your fingernails had red tips that matched your lips. And that smile. Every time you saw me you were beaming. It was easy to mirror that. Love breeds love.

There were others.

The young woman in the kitchen who fed me bottles and swayed along with music on the radio. I can still picture her back and the crisp dress she wore as she cleaned dishes in the sink. I remember the young man who's face was much like yours who came home at night. He tossed me into the air and caught me while singing life has it's funny little ups and downs, downs and ups, ups and downs. And the other woman - with the warm chest and gentle bouncing - her face dark but with teeth and eyes gleaming. I was her little Debbie too, a "beautiful lil' child." Her scent was fresh bread and soap. As she carried me -she sang songs I could feel. Swing low sweet chariot, hush lil baby don't say a word mamma's gonna buy you a mocking bird. The young woman in the kitchen sang to me too. Three little fishes in an itty bitty pool and mares eat oats and doe's eat oats and little lambs eat ivy a kid'l eat ivy too wouldn't you.

I grew up singing.

My clothes smelled like you because you'd made them. Sweaters and bonnets and socks so soft and sweet. I still have many of them. Minty green with white fur collars. Pink with pearl buttons. I even have ones you made for my father when he was a baby.

There was a day we sat in on a chair set out in the freshly mowed grass. The chair bent backward to rock. I was clinging to you and looking up past your face at the patterns the sunlight made as moved through branches of the trees over our heads. I slipped into sleep in your arms.

I found a chair from the 50's that bends like that. I rock, eyes closed as the California sunlight washes over my face and remember you. My precious Dee Dee. My grandmother.

No words

No Words

Bastard

I was just 21 and obviously naive. You weren't the first to take advantage of that. My boss at the pub where I worked had tried just a week before. He kissed me - then tried to fondle me. Seems by letting him kiss me I was a "c--k tease." By asking him to stop I was a "bitch."

Predator

In the middle of showing my portfolio to a Portland art director - he got up and locked the door. He explained how his instant amorous behavior was caused by the green eyeshadow I was wearing. I got out of his office by promising to go to lunch with him.

Abuser

Certainly it was nativity that led me to have an affair with an co-worker. At 20, I had only been with oppressive my husband. The co-worker took me to lunches that felt like dates. I was spellbound by the interest he showed in me, but once the relationship turned sexual - I became his victim. He used me up. When I told him my marriage was over, he said, "I am not your friend."

Pretender

I was easy prey for you. You knew everyone who worked at the pub and they all treated you like a friend. You had me believing you cared for me. All you really had to do was listen, and smile, and hold my hand. I'd been through so much. You were so strong and you seemed so sweet. It was nothing to get me into your bed.

Opportunist

I woke up that morning needing to let out the pain I was feeling. I went to my art desk, picked up an exacto blade and began making tiny cuts on my arm. There was no one there to stop me. The boyfriend was at work and he'd told me that morning we were through. He'd found out about you. My ex husband was suing me. I cut and cut and bled and cried and the phone rang. I told you what I was doing. You told me to come over.

Rapist

You really didn't need the pills you gave me. I walked in numb. My makeup was running down my face as you got out your camera. Whoever you were taking photos of surely it wasn't me. I was somewhere else, barely aware you were talking me out of my clothes bit by bit, click by click. There was moment of calm as you laid me on your bed upstairs. I trusted you. I thought you were going to hold me while I slept. I wanted to sleep. I was going to sleep, until I saw the camera on the tripod. I was groggy, pleading with you to stop. I was saying "NO!" as you raped her to the rhythmic sounds of the automatic shutter.

At the time, I blamed myself for what you did to me. I never reported it. Months later you called and suggested I should come over and we'd look at the photos you'd taken of me.

There is no word for that.

At arm's length

I was in my fifties when we finally talked about my childhood.

Oh, I'd asked questions and you'd given me a glimpse or two into your life - but in my cousin's kitchen, we enlightened each other. The safe distance we'd put between us was not there that morning. I found myself pouring out memories and stories about my life as your child. I talked about wanting to take my life at 15. I talked about the man in the park when I was 7. I talked about locking you out of your house when I was 5. I talked about what it was like to be your baby and see you through the bars in my crib and know you would not be coming in to hold me.

I was in my fifties when I finally felt you loved me.

With the Kansas sunlight spilling across the table and all those clocks ticking around us, you said the words I'd needed to hear forever. "I am so sorry, Debbie. I was not there for you."

You believed then that it was a wife's duty to put her husband first and her children second. It was your intense love for my father that kept you at a distance from me. To the 20-something you, there was only so much love to go around. You had to be frugal. You learned to hold me at arm's length and I learned to take attention anywhere I could find it.

I was in my fifties when, finally, I stopped.

I love you mom.

Unbearable

For the record, it wasn't the bear I wanted, but the chance to be on that stage getting the bear. It didn't even look like a real bear with it's pink chest and face, but it was big. As I watched the other kids around the bleachers screaming with joy and racing down to the stage to collect their prizes I could not think past my own need to be a winner.

The winning coupons were hidden in the chocolate bars. Kids rich enough to get the candy got the chance to win a big prize. Grandma had bought us both a bar. I ripped mine open to instant disappointment. She was helping you open yours, but it was me that saw the ticket peaking out. Obsessed, I grabbed the ticket and bolted for the stage. I could hear your surprise and screams behind me but they were drowned out by the crowd cheering for all the winning kids collecting their big pink and black bears. I was a perfect angel as a clown handed me my prize. I was beaming. I was a winner. But it did not feel like I'd imagined it would. The moment my arms were around the bear and I was headed back up into the stands the guilt hit. I had cheated. I was a cheater.

To deal with my guilt, I had a story by the time I got up to our seats. I had gone to get the bear for you. I had done this favor for you because I was your big sister. I was too old for bears. You were too little to go down to the stage. The clowns would have scared you. My words did nothing to stop your tears. You wrapped your arms around the bear but it was not a comfort to either of us. Grandma was glaring at me. Everyone was glaring at me. Cheater. Thief. Bad girl.

You kept that bear on your bed.
Maybe you even forgot the day you got it, but I never did.

Sorry.

Bursting the bubble

The day I told you what I was REALLY thinking ended our friendship.

I find myself playing back that phone conversation in my head with remorse. How much of what I said set you on the path that ultimately led to your death?

I said what I did because I saw you wallowing, thrashing against what was true. You wanted what you wanted. You felt nothing for the people around you other than what they could do for you. You wanted to be pitied, to be cared for, to be the focus of attention. You took it all to the point of creating your own version of reality where you could say what you wanted and everyone would just listen. Many actually played along. You were believable. I did not believe you but pretended I did. I could see beyond the words to what you were feeling.

I spent years letting you vent until you began to manifest your fantasies. People were getting hurt. You were a train bent on crashing head on to destroy the good in your life and people around you to make a point about what you could not have. To get your way. To be happy.

Friends tended to believe rather than question you. With only one side of the story - your side - I'm sure they found it easier to agree and give you their verbal support then move on to their own lives. Your life was a side story to them. What they so casually accepted as truth fueled your fantasies.

Your downward spiral was epic. Many of your friends saw the drinking. Many saw the control issues. That day, the day I told you what I was really thinking , I saw it all. I realized that your side of all the stories could not be true. They'd grown too elaborate. They fit together too well. You were no longer calling to get clarity, you were calling to gather an army. You were going to war against your ex boyfriend. A conspiracy of your own creation pushed you to take dramatic action. Your needs were not being met. You were being taken for granted. You had done so much for him, and he had lied to you. He had taken from you. You were going to bring him down for hurting you.

The day I told you the truth I spoke from my heart. I loved you and you needed help. You needed therapy. You needed to stop drinking. You needed to see the difference between your reality and actual reality. I heard "a huhs" and "mmm's" but you did not hear me. You were already spinning my words in a new direction. It was expected. I could take being your next disappointment as long as you stopped hurting others.

I did not stop being your friend on that day. As the truth came pouring out I felt so close to you. I felt like my words might wash over you and give you insight. I felt we could take steps together to get you help. I let you know, I would be spreading the truth so all your friends could help you too. That was too much. I know it now. But you said then you understood. And the calls began. I found them. All your friends and family spread out across the country. I called contacted each and we talked about you. First they said what you'd told them, then what they knew, then they listened as I filled in the gaps and made sense of the story. At the end of each conversation I knew more about you. I had another friend pulling for you to get well. Your midnight call list grew thin as more and more of your friends chose not to listen to your drunken rants.

If you had not stopped talking to me, maybe I could have helped make sense of it all for you.I'd brought it on. I wanted to scream "ME! I did this. I know you love me. Can you see that I am doing this because I love you?"

You did much of what you said you'd do. You pushed people from your life. You turned every event into another reason for you to act and think like you did. You let the love around you turn to mud no one wanted to wade through. Loving you was a trap - one got stuck - and once stuck you had a captive audience.

Maybe our friendship ended because you wanted to send me a message. Maybe by pushing me out of your life I would somehow feel what you were feeling. You may not have been in contact with me, but I was still in contact with all your friends. They saw me as the only connection to you that was solid. I was the only person not on your list of conspirators. I was the only person you were not spinning stories about. When you spoke to friends, it was as if I vanished from your mind.

You lost everything the month's after I'd talked to you. I know now it was really your own doing, but I'd turned up the speed so you'd hit bottom faster. You were taking care of your mother in San Diego when you first attempted suicide. You family should have called me. I would have come. I wish I'd come. They put you into a clinic and you talked your way out. That makes me smile as much as it makes me sad. You were so charismatic, so persuasive. It was one of the things we all loved about you.

You used to tell me your worst fear was to have nothing, to have no one.

When you life passed before your eyes did you finally see?

You had everything.

Russian

Everyone has something in common with everyone else.

Today I stood to one side while other more influential people did their meet and greet. I hovered near you, waiting my turn tell you how wonderful your performance was. That was the appropriate thing to say, the expected thing. But lately I've found come to realize the joy in finding common ground.

I grew up in Kansas. My father and grandmother were Jewish. As a child I was obsessed with show tunes. I sang constantly. I loved the Wizard of Oz. I thought I was Dorothy.

You laughed and said you thought you were Dorothy too.

Stand up

Friday the 13th at the Punchline in San Francisco, you bombed.

I'd never seen your act tank before and I was in agony for you. I came with my girlfriend and she and I were to meet you and a friend of yours after the show for a drink. It was just to be a friendly outing, but my girlfriend knew the truth. I was crazy about you.

In the months you and I had been talking and all the shows you'd invited me to, this was the first time you'd asked me to meet you after a show. Usually you kept me at a distance. I was just happy to be around you. From the moment I first watched you walk on stage to open for another comedian, I knew you'd be famous. You became even more famous than I could have imagined.

That night, my girlfriend started pushing me to make a play for you. She was insanely jealous. San Francisco in the late 70's - I was seeing her. I never told you that. Making love to you was OK in her book but BEING in love with you was not. To upset me, she she picked a guy at random and left with him moments before you stepped up to the mic. Sitting in the dark, dead room, I was vulnerable. I did not want to suddenly fall into bed with you. I wanted to slowly fall in love with you.

We walked to Enricos. As we passed all the strip joints you told me how you'd been working on your dancing at the Paladium. You told me about your new contacts in LA and how you were hoping to get into TV. We sat in at a table near the sidewalk, in case my girlfriend came to find us. We had quite a bit to drink. Your friend was so sweet. He'd been friends with you and your brother since high school. He'd been to Vietnam. You were so gentle with him. He was staying with you and he invited me to stay with you too and said you and he would make me breakfast.
We laughed. I did not know know who the man was that joined us at the table. I know you introduced us and that he was a producer and you held this man in great respect. He talked of how you would be famous. He talked about how good it was to see you out with a beautiful woman. Me. He was talking about me. The rest became a blur when I felt you move your chair closer to mine and you took my hand under the table. So gentle. So electric. I wondered if my girlfriend was right after all.

We stumbled from the bar and somehow it was decided you should drive my car because I was drunk. On the way to the car, you kissed me. All my reserve vanished. I was crazy about you. You were obviously attracted to me. Whatever the night would hold was meant to be. It was playful and sweet - making out in front of your apartment on Twin Peaks. Your friend seemed so happy I'd come back with you. I liked him so much.

I was on your couch. You were in your bed. Your friend was on your floor snoring. I got up to go to the bathroom and on my way back you pulled me into your bed. We were drunk. And it happened so fast. In a heartbeat you were telling me to go back and sleep on the couch because you could not sleep with me in your bed.

Did you know I cried myself to sleep?
Kicked out of bed. What had I done?
Why had I gotten into your bed at all?

Once the light began coming in the windows, I slipped onto the balcony overlooking the Castro. Your friend came out with me. He was excited that you and he would be making me breakfast. I told him I didn't think you would be wanting to make me breakfast. I told him I didn't think you wanted me there when he woke up. I hugged him and I left.

We barely talked after that. And once you became famous it seemed like I'd only slept with you because you were famous. But you weren't then. What were you thinking? What led you to believe I was expendable? Usable? How could you be so romantic one moment and cruel the next. Were you so clueless you could not see how much I cared for you? I was not a groupie. I was humiliated and ashamed.

And then, you were everywhere. Every time I saw you on TV, I played through my head what I would tell you, how I would clear my honor. I played it out in dreams. I told anyone who would listen. I dreamed you said you were sorry you'd hurt me.

Last week I read an article that says you met your wife around the same time I knew you. You've been together almost 30 years. You have children. You are still performing, but I can't bring myself to come to your shows.

You knew I was married when you invited me into your bed.
Would the story have ended differently if I had been single?

No, things work out the way they are supposed to.
I expect I'll never get that apology.

Pen pals

You knew me as Debbie, or "the girl across the street."

We were both 10 and we spent 2 weeks catching butterflies and mounting them to black velvet in the cool dark of your grandparents' house on Quivera in Great Bend, Kansas. You were my friend at a time when I had no friends. I don't remember your name. I don't remember a thing we talked about. But your hair was blond and your skin was tan and you were the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. You were an angel. I wanted to scream "I love you" every time our eyes met.

When you left, I thought we'd be pen pals.
This is the first time I've ever written you.
Write back if you get this.

Office romance

I've carried this question with me for over 30 years, "Did you ever become a novelist?"

I remember you talking about moving to a small town in Maine, looking out over the ocean, and writing. I'm sure you got a boat once you got there. I remember days sailing with you on the San Francisco bay. You were one of the easiest people to be with I have ever met.

At 36 you were probably you were caught off-guard by the attention of the 23 year old rebel artist in the office. I had no sense of how to be corporate (or appropriate) and lived for office humor and flirting with you. We became close in a way I hadn't known before. I adored our lunches in the park. When I think of you, I smile as big as I did then.

I was thrilled with you began dating the new editor in our office. You got married, right? And when you two moved to Maine, wasn't she pregnant? You were the kind of guy that would make an excellent father. When you got sick and she and I were both looking in on you, that's when I knew she was the right girl for you. She was in love with you. Not that I wasn't.

I loved you. I just couldn't be with you.

There is no line

Thank you for telling me about the chat windows on AOL. Thank you for encouraging me to go to room NSR - where you would be playing a dwarf or a vampire. Thank you for letting me know the screen names you would be using. You said it was like improv. People playing characters and acting out stories through chat text. You were so friendly on the phone, so encouraging. I went right online and suddenly found myself being im'd by a lawyer in LA who said he was gorgeous and it was so hot all he was wearing was a pair of khaki shorts and asked me "what are you wearing?"

I assumed you told me who you were online so I would find you.

In person you seemed not to notice me. I was in your class. You were teaching us to create improv stories that would span an hour or two in one performance. We were to become characters with depth and history. Each of us was to be a part of the larger story. You would have us start a story, and it seemed everyone else would get into the story and play their parts but moments after I entered the scene, you would stop the story. This happened every exercise, over and over. I took it personally.

I came to class thinking you'd shared a secret with me.
I left thinking you hated me. No one wants to be judged so randomly.
You did not even know what I was capable of. I left determined to show you.

I created a story. In it I was a teenage girl left behind in a sprawling mansion while my father traveled. I wrote the story in the form of diary pages that the character sent as "blind" emails to your vampire character and to a number of other improvisers I thought might like to play along. It took a week of diary entries before you contacted my character. You came online and we improvised a scene. The dialog was intoxicating. It was just words typed in a chat room, but it felt like it was really happening. The scene ended with whispers as you took blood from my neck. "It may seem like I am leaving you to die, but you'll live."

It was hyper real. It was exhilarating. It left me weak and I wanted more.

It took another week of diary pages to get you to play another scene with me. In the midst of it, AOL went down. I could not let the scene end. I was distraught. I had your number. You'd called me before about the class. You did not seem surprised when it was my character calling - it was as if you knew I'd call. I told you I was freaking out. I told you it was too real. I told you I was losing the line between reality and fantasy.

You said, "there is no line."

You invited me, as my character, to come to an improv performance. Others who played major characters in NSR would be there. You said I could meet them. Once you saw the character was me it became clear.

In your fantasy, you believed I was someone else.

Yes

It had been months since I'd spent any time with you.

I'd made myself quite a nice space to live alone. The divorce was going uncontested. I'd been dating. I was serious about one. You had seen us together. He was young and single and cute. You were older than me by, what, 13 years? So he was your junior by 16.

That night, I was expecting anyone at my door, but you. I was not happy to see you, but my smile lied for me. I felt guilt. And my guilt welcomed you into home, my arms, my bed. Somehow I thought if I slept with you one more time, you could find closure.

You were at my door that night looking for a safety net.
You were going to leave your wife and tell her what?
That you'd had an affair with me but I'd broken up with you?
That I'd left my husband but you had not left her?

Guilt kept me quiet while you begged and pleaded, "If I leave my wife will you marry me?"

You were a foreign object in my personal space.
You took up all the air in the room.
I could not wait for you to go.
I said "yes" just to get you to leave.

At fault

My sister was on the swings.
Her long golden curls framing her golden face.
Her eyes bright blue, like a doll. A five year old doll.

While you stared at my sister swinging, I was staring at you. You wore a white short-sleeved shirt and had a plastic pocket protector full of pens, like my uncle's. Your pants were black and your shoes were shiny. You were tall, but all adults were tall to me when I was seven. In my child's memory I dress you in a trench coat, but that has to be wrong. It was mid summer in Kansas and at least 90 degrees. Even in your white shirt, you would be sweating. Or maybe it was fall, almost winter. In my child's memory I see brown trees and gray sky. Surely this could not have happened on a sunny day.

My knees were scabs and my white skin never seemed to glow like my sister's. She was all dimples and giggles. I was brooding and annoying. She was snow white and I was ugly and you wanted her.

You walked behind her and took the chains in your hands and pulled her back against your chest. There was a pause as if you were inhaling her, then you pushed, and she flew.

At first you did not notice I was talking to you. It took quite a bit to get you to focus on me and not the doll on the swing, but I did my best to show how interesting I could be. The doll barely spoke but I was fluent in adult chatter and you seemed amused that I sought you out.

I lead you away. You followed me deeper into the park. I found a bar and showed you my tricks and you smiled with your wolf's teeth and I pretended not to notice. I wanted to reach a very high trapeze. I asked you to help me. You picked me up by the armpits and pulled me against your chest. There was a pause as you made sure the pens in your pocket caught the front of my shirt and pulled it open so you could look down my chest to see my nipples. I struggled to get out of your arms but held me tight as your eyes lingered. Then you lifted me within reach of the trapeze and said, "See, I am just helping you up."

My sister had wandered to where we were. I had to let you help me down, it was too far to drop. You were smiling at my sister as your hand moved between my legs and you pressed your fingers into me.

Your car was parked by the water fountain. I told you I was thirsty. I told you my sister was thirsty. When she was next to me at the fountain, I knew there was no explaining - so I just whispered in her ear, "RUN!" I ran us through the space in the fence I knew your car could not follow. I ran us six blocks without stopping to grandmother's house, where our mother was.

I told my mother what you did.
I told everyone what you did.
But I was always talking, talking, talking.
They thought it was just another story.
And I thought it was all my fault.

The missing

You were born on my birthday so it's no wonder we are so alike.

Can a mother and son be twins? I could read you like no one else. And you me. It was both wondrous and annoying. We could see when the other was frustrated and when the world went dark. You always knew what to tell me to bring me back. I did my best to let you find your own way while letting you know I was always just a hand's reach away.

Tonight, I am much further than that.
But I think my concern is as much for myself as for you.

You are setting up your dorm room tonight. Beginning your own life. I know you can conquer your frustrations and find the light in the darkness. I know you will call or text or email if you need me. And I know I need to let go.

For weeks you've been saying "I am leaving..." and it felt like you wanted me to say I would miss you and that I did not know how I would live without you. I could not say those things. Yesterday I said " how can I miss you when you haven't left yet?

I miss you now.

Bubble of calm

You'd planned your life and the things around you so carefully. You were living where and how you'd always dreamed with a wonderful man who loved you and who provided for you. The house he bought was at the top of a hill and the world looked up to you.

Charmed. You were always charmed it was part of what everyone loved about you. Flaming red hair, blue eyes and more energy than the energizer bunny. I loved you to bits but to spend time with you in Portland was exhausting. On my last visit you told me go relax in the jacuzzi tub off the master bedroom. You did not tell me the toilet next to the bath was stopped up and overflowing with shit. Why were you still using it? Why didn't you just call a plumber to fix it? I took my bath and held my nose and my tongue. And when you came up with a glass of wine for me and talked on and on about how fabulous this bathtub was, I let my smile lie for me. I'm not good with lies. And I sensed you would not hear the truth. You were already trapped inside the life you were pretending to have. To you, there was no shit.

He'd left you by then. It was not official, but then how official does it have to be when you were never married. He was off skiing for the winter, driving an rented RV so he could just sleep in the parking lots. He'd invited you to go with him. I heard him. He meant it.

The food in your fridge was all past it's dates. Some of it by more than a year. Like Blanche in a Streetcar named Desire, you “always relied upon the kindness of strangers”. Literally and without a second thought. A call to go to dinner meant someone was buying you dinner. An invitation to go skiing in Park City meant airfare, room, food, alcohol, lift ticket, and likely a shiny new ski jumper.

You were living in a home owned by your boyfriend. A home you talked him into buying because you did not like his other home. This one had the blue and yellow kitchen you'd always knew you'd have. When you needed a car, he gave you money for a new one, and you bought a used Lexus instead. You had no money for repairs the car felt like the contents of your fridge. A part of your plan was to be rich. Looking rich was the first step.

He stopped by and you attacked him. Hitting him and throwing printouts at him. Accusing him of having an affair with a married minister. You had this planned, your counter attack. You'd been reading his emails and emailing back. In fact you'd already decided the affair was REAL and you'd told everyone. Including the woman's husband and congregation and your family, and all his friends. THIS was the reason he were leaving you after he'd promised to take care of you.
None of it was true, but you convinced many people it might be.

You began attacking yourself. Knocking yourself in the face and tossing yourself against the walls and furniture to inflict bruises. You yelled, "spousal abuse" over and over as he walked out the door.

You insisted you did not need to work, even through there was never any money in your wallet. For years I suggested you needed to plan for a life beyond him. You were sure he would always take care of you "he'd promised!" No, he didn't. He told me as much. He was a concerned about you as I was. But we were all co-dependents afraid if we suddenly stopped you would kill yourself.

And you did.
The process was not unlike your plan for your life.

One by one those that loved you confronted you. He was the first. The stock you'd talked him into selling that bought the house and the trip around the world and the lexus and his retirement - tanked. It was now worth next to nothing. He was no longer living in the house with you. He needed to sell his house. You insisted you should get half of the sale. He reminded you it was not your house and in fact he was loosing money on the sale. He was letting you live there until you could find another home. It was amazing that the house could be shown at all. And when it sold, you refused to leave. He and his friends had to come with a truck and haul your sprawled belongings to storage. You they hauled to another friend willing to take you in. You slept on the couch in their basement just as he had for all the months you'd been unwilling to leave his house. They were kind to you. They probably felt they could help.

Last night I became overwhelmed. Too much was going on around me I could not control and I kept breaking into tears. So I took a pill, two pills - just to relax and get my work done. But after a half hour the work was so unimportant. I moved to the living room and found myself sitting in the last place you sat in my home. It was just the softest corner and I thought "I could feel even better with a drink." Looking for white wine or vodka - I did think of you and the last time you were here. You took Valium then secretly drank every clear liquor in my house. I wanted to understand you, so I choose vodka sand sipped it watching TV. This was the feeling you were craving. The effect of the Valium and vodka had me feeling NOTHING - just a bubble of calm. No stress. No responsibilities. No reality.

I got myself back to bed but I don't remember it. Ben said he found me in bed fully dressed with my mouth wide open. The lights were on but I was out. I remember all the times I found you like that and the times you sleepwalked through my house looking for something you'd lost. I the end you'd lost everything.

You took a lot of Valium and wine before you walked into the swimming pool fully dressed in a bubble of calm nothingness.

Nick

I had to chose to be you or him. You both were young and talented and made me laugh. You were 20 years younger than me, he was 22 years younger. He said,"I'll never stop loving you." You said, "I don't know how I'll feel when you get old." I could not stop time. He came with me to tell you . I held you while cried . You said, "I should have asked you to marry me." You came to our wedding. Years later it came back to haunt me that the reason we never put a book of our wedding photos together was that you were in almost all of them.

Today I know - your were right. How could you know?

His answer was a riddle.. He would never stop loving me they way he did then
Vindictive, controlling, hateful, resentful... and he used you as an excuse for 18 years of constant affairs that were always "my fault"

Thank you for emailing with me now. I treasure your messages. I love that we are penpals.
Even through I am now 64... and 20 years have past and you are now the age I was... then.

Delicious

I saw in you everything I felt I could be.
You were the darling of so many.
As a couple we would be amazing.
People would cry when they saw us together.

You were older, younger, mature, playful, a great listener.
You were funny, creative, musical and madly in love with the me.
I was whatever you saw in me and then a bit more for good measure.
I was in love with the idea of us. Of course, I was in love with you.

It was fate.
It was intense.
It was justified.
Superimposed over the life I was already living.
Like a dieter sneaking snickers.
You were delicious.

If there is a heaven

Lately I've found myself missing friends and lovers I no longer have in my life.

I'm still here, in this house, in this town. I still do the same work I've been doing for more than 30 years. People I used to think of my best friends no longer live here or no longer live at all. I don't know what force pulled them or me out of each other's lives.

I find myself passing a house I spent evenings in and I remember the food and the wine and the conversation and the feeling of "then." And I miss it. I can feel it like it was last night and yet I know, I am not the same person I was then. I've grown old, older, and so have they and they too are not who they were. Maybe they are no longer a couple as I am no longer a couple with the husband I was married to then.

And all those times I stepped away from my life and into relationships that while considered to be wrong, moved me so much - taught me so much. The memories of being present with that connection, however brief, but intense. A drunken kiss. An admission of caring, of longing. Was it really me back then? And what of the feelings and memories of those I connected with? Am I a memory to them as they are to me? I don't want to go back, I just want to remember, with someone who was there with me.

Perhaps that's the real pain we feel. That we are each of us alone to ponder what was.

I miss you too. I miss all of you.

I wish there was a day when we could each list out all the people we'd love to reconnect with or meet for the first time - and like speed dating we'd move through them catching up or coming together but only for a limited time - and then at the end of the day if each checked each other's name on the card - you'd get more time to remember together. If there is a heaven - I hope that's what's waiting for me. The chance to go back and reconnect. The chance to say that how I felt was real and honest and I don't regret a thing, except how it ended.

How did they all end? I'd love to know what I don't know.

If I could start my life over, I would make sure each person who touched my heart knew.