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2008 was supposed to be a big year fro us. I was turning 40 and Tony was turning 50. We had wanted to do something extravagant to mark those momentous occasions—a trip to Europe or a cruise—maybe even one of those all-gay cruises. The thought of being able to comfortably hold hands during a moonlit stroll along the deck was very appealing! The same year that was so notable would also be our seven-year anniversary. We didn’t have any plans for to celebrate yet, but I knew what I was getting him: a ring. He had spotted a beautiful mesh ring at Tiffany’s and that was going to be his gift. It was also about the only thing at Tiffany’s I could afford!
2008. It was going to be a great year.
We didn’t make it.
I mean, sure, I am still here and I am the one living 2008 as it plods along, churning days into weeks and weeks into months and so on.
But it’s just me.
And I hate it.
Tony’s been gone over two and a half years. There’s not a day that goes by, nor a moment that passes that I don’t wish with every fucking fiber of my being that he was here with me. Sure, when I am at work, I am distracted and I can focus on other things.
But the second I walk out of the office and off campus, it’s all right there.
He’s gone and I’m here and life sucks.
People tell me that time heals all wounds. That my friends, is a crock of shit. I feel no better now than I did those first few weeks after he died. I mean, I’m not crying as much—which I think is because of the medicine, so I guess that’s a good thing. Still, I go to sleep every night praying, wishing, hoping beyond hope that he will come to me in a dream.
It’s a dream I am desperate to have—we walk, we talk, we hold each other. Though the setting changes, he is still there. There have been times when I can almost feel him lying next to me, telling me to turn over because my snoring is so bad. I can almost feel my arm draped across his side, pulling him close to me.
I pray every damn night for that dream. It’s what makes going to sleep worthwhile.