From: email@example.com (Danny Ingram)
Subject: and finally, the tears
Date: 15 Oct 1996 14:15:24 GMT
I had a wonderful time in DC at the Quilt display. I spent time with motss
friends who become more loved by me everytime we meet, and I met new
friends, including the legendary Paul Hastings, no less a legend in person.
I danced, hiked, protested, raged, and ate a lot of very good food. It
was everything I could ask of a vacation. But I hadn't come to DC for a
vacation. I had come to say goodbye one more time. I came bearing a 3 by
6 foot memory of a lost dream. I came expecting to cleanse myself again
with grief that grasps my hurting heart and makes me feel alive. But I did
not cry in DC.
I waited for the right time to check in Darrell's panel. I waited for the
feeling that told me it was time to make it happen. It was a blur of
efficiency as the panel was joined quickly to others and displayed with
40,000 new neighbors. That panel that I have seen everyday for the past 3
years lay in the bright sun unchanged. I expected, needed, prayed for the
tears to come. But they did not. I left my 3 by 6 foot memory and walked
away. The next day I returned too late for the closing of the Quilt, and
the panel was wisked away. Gone. Still, I did not feel.
Last night I came home to Atlanta. I was eating dinner when I realized I
had to go back to my bedroom where something that has been a part of my
life for three years was not there anymore. I didn't need to see the spot
where it had lay to know what its absence from there looked like. I did
not need to hear names echoed across the lawn. And finally, the tears
came. Healing, living tears that choked me into life again. How can I not
remember how loved he was. How can I not remember. Finally, the tears.
Return to Gay:Stories:Gay Death
The Bibble Pages, Christian Molick,