Handfasting

What can I say that already hasn’t been said. Pierre is gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Wendy, his partner wrote to me, “You are one of the few who knows what this is like”

Pierre left Wendy as Renee left me. Quickly. Pierre left two months after his diagnosis of cancer. Renee left 5 months after we became partners. People say how tragic. I grin and grit my teeth wanting to say, “It’s only a tragedy for you”

I don’t tell our story much anymore.

I’m not a fool for seeing it that way. I’m not a fool. I’m not stupid. And I’m not going to see it your way. For you, it’s all about penance and pity. You have no idea. A doctor who performed underground abortions delivered me. For you, he’s evil. For me, I’m blessed. I’ve had my experience.

The feeling, because of death was inevitable, that between us there was no margin for bullshit.

The feeling, for whatever it means, that I had never felt more of a man before or since

The feeling, undoubtedly, that with her through her passage, I was at my best.

I have that slender thread of knowing. That is enough.

We met at the farmers market. I was the milkman. She bought the cream. She lay down the deuce of diamonds. While I was too much of a bonehead to play my hand, the hold only sweetened the cream when the time turned right. When we both bopped that she was the music and I was the physics, it was time set sail and close haul. Lip meat was tasted on December 9. We bid Ave’ to the gods and goddesses on December 13. And on Christmas Eve she told me her mystery had metastasized. It was an easy Rick Blaine to stay and hold the line. We loved every night. Every night. Every night.

“Do you want to get married?” she asks

I freeze. It’s too much to hear. We are alone. She lies in the bed underneath her white comforter surrounded by white walls. Her hair is growing back. A tea candle burns on the dresser. She wanted me to have that space so I’d feel at home. It’s a small altar now whose icons include a postcard image of a raccoon, a 1960 Billy Pierce baseball card, and a pack of American Spirit cigarettes. She asked last week if I wanted the house or money. I don’t deserve either, I thought. But the spirit behind us is thinking otherwise. I was worthy of all of it. Make the choice. I did. But this is too much. I waver. I am afraid. The speed with which everything is happening catches up with me. It rubs against my vow 20 years before to never get married. This is too much. Too much to ask. Too much to answer.

“Please, not now” I say.

Two Sundays later, I realize it’s the day after Mayday. I set up a candle, ask her to hold my hand, and we both jump over the flame. A pagan hand fasting. We hold each others hearts for a year. Come the next May 1, we do the same, either to continue or separate.

Two Sundays later, as I held Renee in my arms, she left.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.