In Loving Memory (some of what wasn’t in the obituary)

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–For Ric.  (The pieces in quotes are from his unpublished memoir, And Then There Was I ). 
 
 
By thirty-six, he’d already lost
his soulmate to AIDS
and had sat by the beds of two hundred and fifty men,
watching them slip away and wrote about it in his memoir,
And Then There Was I.

“The thing I soon realized after his death was that the only thing that I could possibly do with the loss was to learn to love myself the way that only he could.  It was as if my severe grief was all tied into this feeling of abandonment that I was being challenged to fill in for myself.  Something that came naturally and easily for him was nearly impossible for me to implement—it caused me many years of mourning, depression, and upset with God.”

When I met Ric, he encouraged me to dance.
He danced every morning, with Sai Baba,
his heart lifted in ecstasy,
opening to his teacher.

He sent my mom a Mother’s Day card,
thanking her for raising me.
Mailed me fresh macarons from his local bakery wrapped
in crinkly brown paper.

He left the family farm in Wisconsin,
left his dog, left it all,
to find out who he was.
He came out when being gay
meant death by disease.

“My whole life was swallowed by
 the suffering of the AIDS community.”

He was a massage therapist to those
blistering and broken bodies, a container
for their grief, promising them meaning.

“While the world searched for a cure,
I searched for meaning
in the spiritual care of the dying.”

His heart carried their weight,
but he never stopped loving.

He missed his mom--
believed no one should grow up
without their mother’s touch,
that something vital would be lost forever.

Sai Baba spoke through him,
told him to write,
promised he and I would meet again
that we will all be together.

He made lemon bars, just for me,
put them in the freezer for when he was feeling better, and I could visit.

Then his heart gave out.

Survived too by me—just a friend.
I feel him dancing out beyond my view,
still speaking, still loving,
still keeping the promise alive.
​
“Where does my love for him begin?  Looking back, it is hard to tell.  Was it at his deathbed where I sainted him?  Was it the first time we did ecstasy at Charm Lee Park?  Was it the first time you stepped out on me and told me about it?  Or was it when you gave me that makeup present from the Bodhi Tree bookstore of Joseph Campbell and the Mystery of Myths?  Or was it that Easter Sunday out in Joshua Tree National Monument, where I pointed out that we were in the middle of a temple with the faces of God watching over us and directing our way?  Or was it that other Easter Sunday when I slipped and crashed in Joshua Tree, and you had to tend my arms from all the fragments of quartz impaled into them?   Or was it that first time you introduced me to a threesome that I hated and continued doing with you because of my inhibitions?  Or was it when you told me your cousin molested you when you were 12?  Or was it the time that I took my family to the Universal theme park and left you home because you were too sick to go?  Or was it when we came home, and you had assembled an entire dinner for all of us and couldn’t eat a bite yourself?” 

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Ric

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Ric's memoir may be lost to the world—this world—but I witnessed every word and story open and transform him.  And me.   

A writing prompt for you: Write a poem for a friend who has passed. 
A contemplation:  What impact are you leaving behind for your friends and loved ones?