An Anniversary - Twenty-Two Years

Twenty-two years ago David and I fused -- which is the best word I can think of right now -- into what has become, over two decades, a gentle, loving, satisfying relationship.

The above picture was taken twenty-two years ago. That's me on the left, David on the right and Heidi in the foreground.

I was, when this picture was taken, at the tail end of sorting out a prior relationship, one of the victims of which was Heidi, an Old English Sheepdog; a wonderful animal who never, ever grew up. Even when arthritis had all but completely paralyzed her, she remained a six-month old puppy in spirit.

Anway, yes, today is our anniversary. Twenty-two years. David and I. Together. And, I guess the only really fitting tribute to our longevity would be an excerpt from a short story I wrote just this spring:

I asked David to move in with me in November of 1982.

It was only a week or two after David had moved in with me that he dialed his parents number and told them he would not be coming home; that he had moved in with a … friend. I was sitting in the living room and David was in the kitchen. I was flipping through a magazine, attempting not to appear to be listening to his conversation. But, it was obvious his parents weren’t letting him off the parental hook easily. He was only twenty-two, for christ’s sake! What did he know about the world? And, who the hell was this older man he was moving in with? And then David’s entire body erupted in a sob that surely -- yesiree, without a doubt – was the result of a laser directed belly punch from the good folks at home. “Don’t call me that,” he sobbed. “I am not a queer. I am not…” I moved to him, took the phone and hung it up. From behind him, I locked my arms around his body and held him tightly, so tightly against his sobs and I said the words, over and over again, “I love you. I love you, baby. I love you. I love you.” Yes, I really said it and, lord -- what was this world coming to? -- I meant it. Yes, me, such an adorably stern picture of few words and careless passions, I had said it. That was the first time I told David that I loved him. And, as I loosened my lock on his body, he turned to face me and through those lovely greens washed by such intense grief, he smiled slightly and said it also: “I love you, too.”

As some of our friends and acquaintances -- young men, beautiful men -- commenced their dying then in that same year, 1982, David and I dug in hard to what I had thought were absurdly stupid (what was the fucking point, after all?) core principles that provide the basis for solid relationships: monogamy, eating at least one meal a day together, sharing what he called the chores (washing clothes, mowing the lawn, feeding the dogs, dusting, etc. etc. etc.). It was easier for David because that – the relationship – is what I believe he truly wanted in his life. But I, oh, I had been a performer in the Big Party for so long; I had loved so many men for at least as long as it took to complete the fuck and had accepted, oh, even reveled in what was then the transitory nature of love, that the job for me, yes -- now I understand it as I write it -- yes, the job for me was never to forget that first, non-sexual embrace when the pain in David’s soul passed into mine; when his sobs were captured by my embrace and when the truth of the words we spoke to one another -- “I love you” – had somehow, for the first time, made sense.

My job was also to remember that young men were dying and that, most likely, David and I had saved each other’s lives then, in 1982; then, amongst the detritus the bogeyman had made of the Big Party; then, in the face of the bogeyman’s insidious snicker, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, baby.”

**

“Bob and Norma will be here the last week of June,” David says, as we stand at the intersection of 32nd and Lowell, the center of our West Highland’s business district, waiting for the light to change.

Bob and Norma are his parents who, fifteen years ago, arrived at our old house, towing their fifth wheel behind their Ford 250. I guess almost six years of silence between them and their son had been enough. They had come to reconcile. They had come to evaluate the older man who had captured their son’s heart. Yes, and I guess that almost six years of silence between them and their firstborn son had convinced even them that if this was a phase it sure as hell wasn’t ending any time soon.

They’ve visited once, sometimes twice, every year since then.

“You taking time off?” I ask.

“Yes. So are you. Mom wants you to take her up to Blackhawk. She’s been saving her quarters for the slots.”

“We can do that,” I say. “Are they going on to Missouri this time?”

“No, not this time. Mom’s still weak from the chemo.”

We cross the street in silence. His parents usually visit with us and then head down to Missouri to visit family. The chemotherapy for his mother’s breast cancer ended just weeks ago.

The aroma of the best pizza on the face of the earth wafts from the little restaurant on the corner. The liquor store across the street is crowded this time of day with the young professionals from the neighborhood who believe profoundly that each dinner must sport a new and exciting wine. The smell of scented candles oozes from the open doors of the three knickknack stores which, apparently, have captured their fair share of the market in our little neighborhood business district. The little book store remains so pitifully small.

“What’s for dinner?” David asks, both of us smelling the baking pizza.

“Don’t know. Your choice.”

“No, I chose last night. It’s your turn to choose.”

"No, wrong. Sorry. You’re turn.”

“All right. Let’s wait a while, though,” he says with a sigh. “Give me time to think this through.”

And, this verbalized ritual of the dinner plans takes us to our street, where we turn the corner onto the last block of our walk. I remembered then that…

**
The first time I told David about the Big Party his response was that he had been born too late. “I was just getting started,” he said, as we lay naked together shortly after he had moved in with me. “I was just beginning to understand the … the game; the excitement of the search. Jesus, I’d been to the baths only twice, before you … captured me.”

“What a lovely way to put it. Captured?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I think your mother would know what you mean.”

“No, no,” he said, turning his face to mine. “I think I wanted to be captured. I think I wanted to be … encircled, held, loved … bound together by something more than the sex.”

He was so serious then and his eyes, his green eyes were so large with the truth of what he was telling me that I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him closer to my body and I kissed his eyes as I told him what, for me, was beginning to be easier and easier to say, “I do so love you, baby.”

**
I open the gate to our front yard, noticing two things almost simultaneously: the spirits at the upstairs window await our return with their impish grins (they have probably turned on a light or two, or moved my reading glasses again from where I always put them); and, the mama finch is alerted to our return, her little gray head perked well above the rim of her nest. And, as we near the porch, she flutters desperately away to the limb of the maple where – as I unlock the door -- she watches our passage beneath her unborn children.

I pass through the living and dining rooms and on through the kitchen to the back of the house where we keep the food for Melissa and Calvin, our Alaskan Malamutes. They stare at me from the back porch through the back door window. They both sit, side by side; their eyes and ears perked, pleading for their dinner. I fill their bowls – half dry, half meat – and a goodie or two on top. Melissa, nine years old, also gets a hormone pill, a thyroid pill, and a baby aspirin. Calvin, five years old gets just his food. I open the back door and serve them their dinner, chattering as I always do about doggies in China going hungry for days and fortunate doggies, say, for example, Melissa and Calvin, who haven’t missed a meal since they were born and… And, they ignore me as they quickly devour the best dog food money can buy. David and I will run/walk our two miles in the park tomorrow with Melissa and Calvin leading the way.

David has taken his magazine into the living room. He sits on the love seat and flips to the page with the creased corner. I don’t even think he notices me pass him as I cross the living room to the stairs. When his stomach begins to growl, he will remember that we have yet to eat dinner.

I climb to my second-story study which faces the front yard and from which our spirits watch our comings and goings from our old house. I believe they are elsewhere right now. I sit down in my big, black leather chair.

I have been reading lately about Tchaikovsky. Last night I read that his death from cholera on November 6, 1893, was, most likely caused from his decision to intentionally drink a glass of cholera-infested water; seeking the comfort of death rather than living with the painful knowledge that his beloved nephew, Vladimir, had forsaken their relationship by associating with female prostitutes.

Love hurts, or so the song says.

Yes, and love laughs and love cries and love is silent and love is cacophonous and love is ugly and love is pretty and love is all there is and love is lacking and love is fulfilling and love is a tear and love is a smile and love is a nod and love is a mystery and love is known and love is unknown and love is brilliant and love is stupid and love is bright and love is dull and love is tough and love is easy and love is … a many-splendored thing.

**
Love? No, I still don’t know what the hell that word means. I just know that the years David and I have had together have been … lovely.

And, I guess that’s really all that needs to be said, except … yes, except that the spirits have returned. They whisper in my ear … their breath a cool wisp against my cheek. “Peter Illyich,” they say in a voice as old as the walls of this house, but as vibrant as the new spring. “Peter Illyich,” they say as softly as the creak they make as they pass through the floor to surround David sitting on the love seat below. ”Peter Illyich,” they say softly, sweetly, as they leave me to kiss David’s eyes with their smiles.