Dear Calvin,

I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye in the hospital—anyway not one I knew you could hear—so this one will just have to do.

What’s a proper goodbye? How do I do this?

Do I tell you how joyous my memories are of our travels and other adventures?

Do I tell you how sorry I am for all the times I made you cry?

Do I tell you how much I wish you hadn’t been feeling bad these last few months, and how I wish I could have snapped my fingers and brought you back to good health, to comfort?

Do I tell you I’ll be OK?

I do think a lot—with immense joy—about all the places we’ve been, and then I think about all the places we planned to go.

What am I going to do without you?

I’m sorry I never learned how to fold a fitted sheet. You were the expert and I never tried very hard to figure it out. The same with fondue: You’re the master, and while I suppose I can learn how to do it it won’t be any fun.

About our adventures…

I think about driving from Houston to Toronto and back, only to run out of gas a mile from home. Or the sightseeing flight in Toronto, where the pilot let you have the controls but took the wheel back when he realized the reference point you were aiming at was the CN Tower.

I think about our 12 hours together in Tokyo, when I went for work and you came separately. To get the good airfare you arrived a day ahead of me and slept on the floor of a family-run inn, and then you went home a day after I got there.

I think of all the wonderful meals we had in 25 states, 10 countries and four continents. I think of all the meals we made at home, both for ourselves and for the guests at our countless dinner parties. People have been telling me how special those events were. You and I were very good at creating connections among our friends, and that’s a great part of our legacy.

The alarm on your phone goes off at 7:30 every day and I love hearing it. Maybe one day I’ll turn it off, or maybe one day I won’t have your phone at all. But not now and not soon.

I miss you terribly. I miss telling you I ran into somebody we know. I miss showing you funny memes even if they made you groan. I miss asking you what your MFA words mean.

I miss touching your hand across the emergency brake. I miss squeezing your shoulders when you got into bed.

I miss watching a movie and saying about an actor, “That guy was in such-and-such,” only to hear you snap, “Right now he’s in THIS. Watch THIS movie!”

I miss watching YouTube videos about Paris restaurants with you, thinking about our next trip.

In these last difficult weeks I would have understood if you’d groaned some, if you’d cursed your limited mobility, your pain. But you didn’t. What I saw in you was nobility. I admired you for it and you inspired me. I’ll remember it always.

I think you were embarrassed to ask for help lately with getting dressed and being driven to all those appointments, but I hope you believed me when I told you it was ok, that that’s what people who love each other do for each other. I felt honored to help you. Thank you for letting me.

After all, you took care of me plenty of times. After my HIV diagnosis and my suicide attempt you were my partner in recovery, never with resentment or bitterness. We got through it together. We got through things. That’s who we were.

So many people have said to me that while they hadn’t ever met you they knew how special you were simply because of all the times I’d told them how special you are. Funny but I never thought of having done that so much, but I suppose it’s natural, like breathing. Telling people what a great person you were came easily because it was always true.

I told you many times how proud I was of you for your wonderful work in the community. But since you’ve been gone I’ve been knocked out to realize just how many lives you touched. People have praised your generosity of time, advice and encouragement. One of the best compliments I heard was, “Calvin always showed up.” You showed up for festivals, meetings, conferences, panel discussions, group projects. You showed up everywhere. Calvin, I hope you knew what a big deal you were in our community. You were on the front page of the paper.

The nice people at Applebee’s are very upset by your absence. It’s jarring to them and so many others to see me without you. I don’t like being without you. Edwina called us a boxed set, which is as good a way as any to describe you and me.

My first response to difficulty was always fear. “This terrible! What’ll we do? How do we fix this?” But it was you who always stayed calm and led us through those challenges.

Seeing you cry always tore me up when it was over something I’d done. But sometimes you’d cry over a song you’d heard. I never knew anyone who reacted so viscerally to beauty, and when you cried like that…it touched me as well.

I’m so glad I could hold your soft hand as you left the world, our world, my world.

I’m scared of the day I stop counting the days without you. I’m scared of the day I sleep normally again. I’m scared of when I don’t cry so much.

I don’t know how to do this, Calvin. I’m probably supposed to tell you not to worry about me, that I’ll be ok.

And maybe I will. I guess I will.

Goodbye, Calvin.

I loved you ever since the day in 1993 I asked if you were the one and you said yes. I loved being loved by you.

-Clay