Remembering

I think of Jeffrey. The fourth anniversary of his death is coming up and I wonder who aside from me and his mother will bother to remember. He was unremarkable and surrounded by people who use others for their own gain, so it's not surprising that he is lost to time, lost to his addictions, lost to the age I will soon be.

He felt shame for his station, his addictions, his life.

I loved him in a weird way. Not with the passion he wanted from me, but from sadness along with a deep longing. I wanted to love him differently, to love him 'for real', but I could not bring myself to such a reality and in retrospect, I'm so thankful that couldn't and didn't happen.

He was beautiful and great fun, but also too devoted to his problems. He had destroyed so much of his mind with drugs that he was nearly incapable of practical thought that went beyond the moment. He wanted me, he wanted us to have a family, he wanted to take me home to his family - to show them he had fixed himself and landed a respectable woman.

If only we could have been frozen in those wild summer days - those lazy mornings and three hour breakfasts. If only we could have stopped time to keep us dancing and twirling around each other. If only late night walks would have been enough to sustain a relationship. But it wasn't. Play time ended and reality set in.

I had to go. Instead of him raising up to be with me, I was sinking to stay with him. I didn't want a child, but he needed me to be his caregiver.

I remember his mom pleading with me to stay with him a bit longer, saying that he was 'almost there'. She did not see the son who hid in doorways and literally ran from confrontation. She did not see the son who lived in hotels and couch surfed when he lost his jobs every few months. She did not see the son who pretended not to know me, the 'love of his life', when his ex-girlfriend came to the bar one night. She did not see the son who would literally not let go of me when my friend Jeff was around, who made a scene of kissing me aggressively in public, knowing I hate public displays of smoochery.

I was told it was me who drove him to his death. If I hadn't left, he wouldn't have gone back to his first love and it wouldn't have killed him. If it weren't for me, he would be alive.

I know that's shite. I didn't kill him. I've loved him longer and better than most others. They have forgotten him, have forgotten his quirky dances, his stupid jokes, his bald head, his scratchy voice, how he tried to hide his smile. I didn't love him the way he wanted me to but I have loved him well. I do love him and I carry a part of him with me all my days. I wear the ring for him. I will never forget, never really let him go.

Nobody knows, nobody sees, nobody knows - but me.