Been a while, dear reader. In just over two months this year,

I went to:

• -Iceland
• -Miami
• -The Everglades
• -Virginia
• -London
• -Virginia
• -Atlantic City

I got a new boss. My father died. I sold my apartment. I found a new apartment, and moved.

If I can survive Q1 2016, I can survive anything.

More later.

We get together more regularly now, my old friends and I. I try to make sure to see them when I go down to see my parents, which is more often now that Dad is so frail. But after a certain number of beers, the conversation inevitably turns to the tragedies. I know not everyone had teen years like these. I’ve met a lot of people over the years, and  I know this isn’t normal. After dinner, we drink and talk about our dead friends. We’re damaged, B. maybe most of all, he was in the room when D. shot Leon., but all of us, interrelated in our damage for sure. Maybe it helps to talk about it, at least it’s not a secret here. But I can’t have the same conversation over & over. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything more. We tried. We failed.

My father has not been well. He’s 86, a multiple cancer survivor, and he’s tired. He’s frail. He’s 139 pounds and 6’1″. His legs are about the circumference of my arms. He looks like the pure instantiation of will.

I was visiting this weekend to help out and run errands. We bought him a new suit, a statement of hope that he will be here to go to the next party. But he also had me type up the details of his career for his obituary. He wants to be remembered for what he did, who he helped, that he made a mark in this world. I can feel him pulling back. He’s almost ready.

I’m not afraid of death, and I’m not opposed to choosing your time to go. But I cried on the train home.

I attribute my longevity to date to my mother: without fear of her reaction, I’d have committed suicide long ago. So, thanks Mom. I love you!

I paid my respects in public, but any mourning must be done in private. His funeral is not exactly where his wife wants to hear how he once said he’d leave her for me. I don’t know for certain if M. knows, or if H. does, but I suspect no one knew. And M. certainly doesn’t know the extent of it, or how many trade secrets he shared those nights in the hotel. And now it’s just me, and I can’t share it with anyone.

I only slept with him the first time to see if he’d actually go through with it. Sex with him was awful, but we saw each other for a long time. Maybe close to two years? I don’t remember exactly. I just couldn’t bring myself to end it, I really don’t know why. I was never in love with him, but I do feel his loss. I think losing a lover, however long ago, has a special poignancy. Even if you can’t even tell your closest friends.

(For the record, dear reader, in case you didn’t know, the secrecy is due to the fact that I worked for him, as did many of my friends. They would be truly shocked.)

There’s no getting around the fact that I need to mark this day. Part of me feels like it’s just a cry for attention — I mean, really, it was 24 years ago, and we weren’t even together at the time. Isn’t this really just a way of making it about me?

No. I’m sorry, but no. I’m allowed a day to grieve and acknowledge the loss. I watched my friend lose his sanity over the course of months (probably longer, but it was so visible those last few months). He truly thought the end of the world was coming, and that his sacrifice would somehow prevent it. He poured gasoline on himself and lit the match. That was yesterday, and the beginning of the longest day. Today marks the day he finally died.

Should I stay home? go out? be alone? with friends? eat? drink? fast? there are no good answers, because there are no right answers. No one, I’m sure, acknowledges this day other than me and his family. Does Rebekah remember? I want to call but I won’t ask. If she doesn’t, surely that’s healthier than me, sitting here, 24 years later, grieving the loss of my friend and my dream of first love.

I wish I could call Kae or Laura or Geoff or Don and talk to them today. I know they know what day it is. But it can’t possibly help them to know that I remember it, too. So I’ll stay home, so I don’t cry in public, and I’ll write this note to acknowledge both publicly and anonymously, I miss my friend. I still feel regret that I couldn’t help more.

And then, grace willing, I’ll wrap it back up in the box, lovingly and carefully, and I’ll put it back on the shelf until next year. Maybe that’ll be the year it stays there until I go get it again, instead of slipping down around the first signs of spring.

I love you, Steve. I always will.

will update later but just couldn’t leave that last desperate hope post sitting there

oh and guess what? it’s april. hello april. i almost forgot about you.

ran into an old neighbor on the subway, always liked her but haven’t seen her in — well, it turns out over a year. her husband has cancer, mantle cell lymphoma, and he’s chemo resistant but just had the ileostomy reversed and when he’s healed from that, needs a bone marrow transplant. they found a donor but it’s only 9 points out of 10 and although that sounds good, apparently it’s not but as she said, the closer you get to dying the more they’ll consider a 9.

i gave her my number and hope she’ll call to go get a drink one day. i always liked her.

I called my sister, but I didn’t say anything to her. Maybe I just needed to hear her talk. I certainly wasn’t ready to say it out loud. My best friend has breast cancer. My best friend from high school, that is. We only talk every year or two, but deep down, we both know we’re each others bff. I’ve known her since I was 12.

I only found out because she called to tell me Christa killed herself last week. A decade ago, she gave her kidney to Diane. Last week, she couldn’t find her way past her troubles. wtf.

May 22 and I didn’t cry. I knew what day it was, and I’ve spent some of the usual time thinking about S. and letting my heart break just a little again, but I didn’t cry. I wanted to post a tribute on my Facebook — so many high school friends are there now — but May 22’s the day he died and that’s not the day I want to remember. May 21, even worse. Can’t begin to imagine what that longest day was like, for him, for his mom.

I’ll post something on his birthday in two weeks, maybe that will seem more fitting.