David Jameson, my better half for seven years, died at the breakfast table of a massive coronary on a Sunday. The paramedics were there within 5 minutes. I stood in the kitchen frozen when they took him away covering his face. The memory of his eyes open and staring would never leave me.
His family had to be told. It would be the hardest phone call I would ever make. And his best friend too, who posted it on facebook. An act I would never forgive. After the tenth phone call. I turned off my phone.
For two weeks I haunted my house, but you see it wasn't my house. I sold mine to move in with David. Several days later his man-hating sister asked me when I would be out of 'her' house as she was in debt yet again. She never shed a tear.
I rented a studio apartment. Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks and suddenly it was three years later. My parents flew down from Virginia to Florida for an unannounced visit.
With concern my mother said. "It's been three years; you have to move on darlin'. This is not healthy."
My father's voice bellowed. "You've been here for three years, and you haven't unpacked? Your life is still in these boxes? Son, there are lot of men who would love to go out with you. You're an intelligent, handsome guy. Don't let this stop you from being you! "Tell me what play are you writing?"
"I stopped writing. I still have the money from sale of my house, and my savings and my royalties. This is my friend's studio. He refuses to take any money."
"Three years is more than enough to mourn, son."
My father spoke loudly, "If you won't listen to us, I know someone who you will listen to. We're going back to Virginia tomorrow." They left the next day."
The next day my cell rang. It was Aunt Rita.
I became a playwright because of her influence and belief in my power to create a story. She more or less educated me. All the classics, the books she bought me growing up. My life was better because of her faith in me. She attended every opening night of my work.
My Angel. I stared at the phone frightened as if the Gods themselves were angry at me. I answered with a meek "hello?"
"What the hell are you doing??
"Listen to me buster. You're coming back to Chicago. The place you were, born, raised and educated. This city is your muse. Trust me, you will find your way back. I'll hire movers. I own a condo in the building I live in. It's yours with a great view. I'll get you a plane ticket. One way. And you get your ass back where you belong ... in front a computer writing. Writing is in your blood. It is who you are. David was a good man, but life, your life must go on!!!"
Aunt Rita was right.
In a matter of weeks, I was moved in. She was right the views were stunning. We were in the loop, next to Macy's. I could see Lake Michigan from my living room. I was back home. Back to the city, the hustle and the bustle of the most beautiful city in the world.
When my bedroom was decorated and my desk and computer were placed in the perfect spot, I began browsing the web looking for anything related to writing or playwrights.
By chance, I found a website called GayAngel. Dozens of gay writers doing what we do best. I started writing again. Not plays but gay stories which I'd never written before. I found myself reading other men's writings. Some sexy, X-rated, others thought provoking and genuine but all food for thought.
Others started commenting on my work; I also commented and supported other writer's endeavors. I actually began making friends. Coming out of the shell I put myself in three years ago.
There were two particulate writers who captured my attention with their work. Both extremely talented respected storytellers. And of those two authors, I developed a crush on one of them. We started writing back and forth, getting personal, sending pictures. And then...
Suddenly, unexpectedly, I stepped out of the shadow of mourning and back to my life.
You may wonder how two people can like each having never met in person, but you must first understand the power of words to answer that question. Words make the man who he is and all he can be.
Because their words, their stories and how they tell them, tell you who they are deep down inside.
