Running through the East Village like we had all the time in the world. Gulping red wine like starving goldfish and spilling out into the midnight streets, laughing on 2nd Avenue, quoting poets we’d just heard, heads pulsing with the beat of music in smoky basements. My god, we’d say, that was pure genius, tumbling joyfully down the sidewalks of St. Marks. But my street was littered with crack vials and the towers came down and my marriage crumbled and you hurt yourself over and over again. Some years after I moved, you took your life, and I was too far away to cut you down or sprint the seven blocks to your place on 6th and climb the endless flights of stairs to shout breathlessly, stop, stop, we’ll just go hear some jazz and it will be alright. Now I live on a quiet street in a tiny town in the country and sometimes I long for recklessness, just to hear the sound of your voice, to descend into darkness, underground, to the kind of place where you’d take stock of my outfit before leaving and squint slightly, tilt your head and say, Oh honey, no.
For Bish.
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So deeply personal it cries. Thank you Suzanna. It takes courage to open up about loss. I hope the good crazy memories you made in your time together will nourish your spirits.
Enjoy the favorite moments and celebrations of the season.
Heide
I also miss Bill, his humor, and his energy. Every Thanksgiving now there is a sad empty chair.