Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

Early Saturday morning, my friend of 23 years died.  He was 41 years old.  I received the call Saturday and I cried all the way home from the training I was co-facilitating.  Note: co-facilitators come in handy when your friends die. 

Out of the past four days, I've cried about three hours give or take.  I didn't cry when I saw his family.  I didn't cry at the funeral home.  I didn't cry at the funeral itself.  I didn't even cry the two nights I spent alone in his house taking care of his beloved pets.  I didn't cry when I was packing up some of his pet supplies to send them down to his mother's house.  I didn't cry when his mother realized we bought dog food instead of flowers. 

23 years would seem to warrant a few more tears.  Instead, I'm hoping his mother might let me adopt one of his dogs with whom I fell in love this weekend.  I'm also hoping I'm not going to have a breakdown and burst into tears this week in the midst of a meeting or teaching or an interview. 

This is a grief I've never known.  I have lost older relatives and acquaintances of my age.  I've been filled with anger over needless, senseless death and murder.  But I've never lost someone with whom I have shared so many years, so many important pieces of my life. As I sat in his livingroom trying to comfort his poor confused animals, a tape of 23 years kept playing in my mind.  I can't imagine walking through this world without this dear, talented, and amazing man. 

And I'm still not crying.