Dean


Soft twilight of 24/7
Coffee scented spot
Waiting forever in two minutes he
Walks in smiling
Brief, familiar hug
Kind eyes, serious face, quick smile, smooth skin, taut muscle
Summary of a glance.

Words lost in the din around us
Laughter and loud conversation
Knives on plates, glass to floor, wine to cup
Scents, incensed, swirling
Dance of the servers between tables

My ears strain to the quiet passionate description
Of worlds seen through his eyes
Told through a quiet husky voice
Moments of meditation gone awry, with the bestowing of blessings
The peacefulness of daydreaming over coffee
Creating.
Completion.
Closure.

And hints of pain under the surface
Life longings, and love
The summary of the complexity of a simple life
Lived to the fullest.

In the middle of a busy room
Quietly alone
Wondering
A million questions left to ask,

Perhaps, again?

Itoshiteru

The first quiet alarm of the morning

Sings quiet warning before being

Silenced.

You sleepily cuddle up against me

In the last ten minutes before we must

Waken.

“Itoshi teru” you murmur, breath

Slowing to sleep as I reply “love

You too”

Eight years gone

My dearest Squish;

Eight fucking years. Hell, baby, I thought I wasn’t going to get to 8 hours, 8 days, 8 weeks without you. I know you come around sometimes. Thanks.  It does keep me going at times, when I need that little reminder that it wasn’t all in my head, and what we had was real.

There are days when people tell me stories that I have to shake myself and go “damn, I was there”. There are other days where every little detail comes flooding in, and if I’m not in a situation that calls for calm (and sometimes when I am) will burst into delighted laughter of a remembrance, or tears that you are not there to share things with.

There are the purely wild “Jaymerizms”:

  • Tea tastes better served in fine china, made by someone else. With cream.
  • Its 7pm. Kayvyn is late.
  • Pretty, pretty, pretty
  • What was that song by that guy?  Let’s call Beeberly
  • I could even out your bangs
  • It’s my favorite size…huge
  • Well FUUUCK that SHIIIIT
  • NEXT!
  • Oh my god, I broke my husband…again
  • Get in the chair
  • Where’s my hitter?
  • I love you so much my earlobes stink

There are lessons that you taught me that I do my best to have learned, some days better than others:

  • Everybody calls when they get home from the party
  • Give people a chance, and then FUUUCK them
  • A stranger is just a friend you haven’t…met….yet
  • If you fuck up dinner, pour another bottle of wine, slap the shit on a fancy plate and sprinkle herbs on it, another bottle after dinner and they’ll all be happy.
  • Blood doesn’t make family. Family are the people in your lives who’d do anything to help you, and you would do anything for.

There are moments in these past 8 years I wished I could’ve shared with you; there are people I would have loved you to meet; there was music to play (even new Stevie and Fleetwood!) and times that I could’ve have used that ultra-confident FUUUCK that to cheer me up and boost my confidence.

See, the biggest thing that you taught me was that life can be enjoyed on your own terms quite happily. That’s the trick of not being a “sheeple”… march to your own drum, off-beat, singing quietly and off-tune or loudly and on; listen to people who need listening to; give love to people who need a little love, but if they don’t give it back, don’t let them suck you dry; go outside with flare, because in a world of caterpillars it takes balls to be a butterfly; if people think you’re just a moth and not a butterfly, fuck it, you still have wings.

And those of us in the know, well, we all have a little piece of you inside of us. When we are together, we laugh a little harder and love a little fiercer, because we know that every moment we have with each other could be the last, so at least for that moment we live out loud.

I miss you, babe.  You had the stinkiest earlobes…

Love,

Your Smoochie

As always, the 3rd is for hate

I hear you there in the dark spaces, screaming of what you would do if let out of the carefully compartmentalized corners I have placed you in. You raged loose at the world threatening that if you could not have all things beautiful than no one could, oh the hateful things I have heard you whisper for hours upon  days as l forced you away from those that you might hurt with your bile and fury and self-immolation the anti-phoenix consuming yourself in a thing of horror; perpetual death.

Every year, the hate/grief surges forward. Logic and culture dictate that you should be resolved, completed, distastefully acknowledged and then swept away.  “Move on, just move on”, is the well-intentioned mantra. “Forgive and Forget.”

Forget? If I could but disentangle all the living horror wrapped around the pure memories of love/grief I would. I would swallow bottles of pills and undergo surgery if I could forget.

Forgive? FORGIVE? Forgive the self-centric and narcissistic? Forgive the incompetent and idiots? The blind-siding hatemongers?

  • student doctors, so proud that they can rhyme off 9 possible reasons why there are white smudges on the xrays, but can’t look at a medication chart to properly adjust a bowel management program;
  • screaming nurse yelling at a heavily sedated dying man, that he can’t talk to her like that, because she called his husband a fag;
  • ‘friends’ who shopped for a suitable knick-knack, while visiting both before and after death, claiming that they had given it to him, so they should get it back, including gifts that he and I had given each other;
  • RBC – the bank from hell that drained as much as they could from his account before I finally needed a lawyer to pit the CRA against them to do what should have been done in the first place.  Not to mention that the money in the account was actually mine, since that was the account we paid bill out of so I just topped it up.  That didn’t piss me off as much as keeping from being able to mourn properly with everyone else at the same time, so I could close off the estate;
  • Ashes. His brother screaming for the ashes before the cremation has taken place. Nagging, hounding, even after I said not until spring, and then bitching about his lost work time that he was holding. Telling me how I was hurting his father.  What a rotten person I was. Then when I send the overflow ashes to his dad, AS PER HIS REQUEST, it still wasn’t good enough, because he wanted it planned so he could be thered.
  • The sister-in-law who spent most of her last visit with us bitching about being a PSW and how she hated working with sick people. We were talking about the bad PSW we had in to help Jaymz, and had to get rid off. Then she hugged him tight, after we told them to barely touch him, as the cancer was in his bones and in the back. He started to cry from the pain, and she thought it grief, so she squeezed him harder and rubbed his back until I yelled at her.  But I was the asshole.
  • Shamma. Mother of his godson and did not even call for almost a year, after he told his godson he couldn’t cut hair anymore. Then she tries to come down the day I was forced to place him. Then she played nice-nice at a luncheon, until he went to the bathroom, and tried to read my beads for keeping her from him, as this was “her time” to spend with her son’s godfather.  Then she tried to show up the day he died and put pictures of her and her child up in my house.
  • Susie mother-fucking Goulding.  You righteous bitch. Bursting into tears at your last haircut, not being able to take the pain of knowing Jaymz had cancer.  Carrying on to the point that I simply had to leave as it was easier for he and I. Arriving at the palliative ward, demanding entrance.  I asked her kindly to wait so I could get an update from the doctor, see how Jaymz was, and then maybe have her up.  (She had driven in after being told not to come until she had spoken with me, but she called from her car when she was almost in the city.)She was already calling up to the room to speak to the doctor, as I was riding up the elevator. With all the commotion, I missed speaking to the doctor myself that last night. Knowing his wishes that if he was ever unconcious that he didn’t want people to see him, I went down and tried gently to say “no, he’s in a coma. No, don’t go up.”  Then so angered I could deny her access to her BEST FRIEND, she handed me the receipts for all the gifts she had brought.  And I didn’t punch her out when I handed it back and said “get yourself a refund”.  Then still not respecting anything, called for an update, found out he was dead, and called and left a cheery message that she would give us her staff discount at her flower shop for funeral arrangements.  Sweetie, darling… all his friends knew there was no funeral.  None of them had heard of you before.  You were a client. Your only redeeming feature was that you had a baby, and he wanted to hold a baby before he died.  The sound of your name still brings me to full rage.
  • I hated the consoling nurse who tried to shush me as I wailed hanging on to his cooling hand, as I tried to feel any sign of life beneath the crisp linen.
  • I hated the funeral home for neatly combing his hair into a part, and for lying him in the chapel with comforting music.

And cancer.  I fucking hate cancer.  I hate that I did my best and it simply wasn’t good enough; I hate there was no miracle drug or standard treatment worth taking; I hated that it took my love away quicker than I had found him.