It was my pen and my paper and my hand, but I will never know for sure who sent me this...some pieces come as gifts.


What I’ll Keep

They wouldn’t let me be with him at the end, quoted hospital rules at me, “family only.” Gave me a list of all the people they said I wasn’t to him: brother, father, cousin, nephew.

I tried to explain who he was to me and I to him. But the doctors just shook their heads, rolled their eyes and kept repeating, family only.

Hell, I’ve been more family to him in the last fifteen years than any of his blood relations. They disowned him when he first came out, and he threw their judgments back in their faces with his flamboyant scarves, mincing steps, and mascara. I loved him. I loved his clothes, makeup, soft voice and hard opinions. I hated his infidelities, but what could I do? He did always come home to me.

When he got sick, I was the one who kept track of the meds and held his head when he puked. Towards the end, I was the one stocking up on rubber gloves and changing his Depends. Every time I called his family, (against his wishes, I might add) they hung up. Did they think the virus could seep through the telephone?

He died last week alone in the hospital. His sister’s coming today with a u haul for all his beautiful things. She has a court order. I don’t really care. The antiques, rugs, even the jewelry I bought him are just residue now.

What I’ll keep is the feel of his hand in mine.