In my dream, she’s picking me up from the airport, like she did on that Summer day in 1993. She looks at me, with that knowing smile, and all I can do is sigh. It was good to be home. It was good that she was the one that I saw first.
For the last 18 hours, I’ve been trying to remember how we met, and for the life of me, I simply cannot. There was a time when she wasn’t in my life, then there she was. Almost like she was dropped into my existence. A perfect fit. She made me laugh, louder and harder than most people. She said my hugs could make any day better, regardless of the circumstances.
Every now and then, I would search for her, using either her name, or one of the aliases she used to go by in clubs to fend off attacking singles. I could never find a trace – and I was thorough. I assumed she married, left Texas, started a new life. She deserved so much happiness.
So, for some reason, she crossed my mind again Monday night, and I tried another search. That’s when I found the first obituary notice. And the second, to corroborate. The photo gallery her family set up on the Morning News’ site confirmed it was her. She had been battling liver and kidney failure for several years, and died December 24, 2009.
She had been gone for five years, and I had no idea. No way to reach out and try to help ease her pain, as she had done for me so many times during my bout with throat cancer. No way to tell her how many ways my life had changed, how I wasn’t the boisterous boy she knew all those lifetimes ago. How I missed her in my life, and how she would have loved my circle of friends, been one of us.
Gone.
As connected as I am, as many people I’ve found again due to Google, or Facebook, or Twitter… How could I have not found her sooner? How did I miss where she was?
How was I not there for her?
How is she not here anymore?
In the last few weeks, I’ve been dealing with mortality. Not only mine, as I know my clock is ticking, but the loss of my mother, and Manda’s mother, and others whom I held close and now are gone. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, and moreso now than in years past. I guess I’ve been tamping it down for so long, there’s no room left.
The joke I have with Manda is that, while other people collect autographs, or postcards, or other pieces of memorabilia… I collect people. I gather them up, share a cool experience, and then carry those experiences around for the rest of my days. Simply meeting the people isn’t enough – there has to be a solid conversation, be it an interview or a prolonged talk. (Some would call it “starfucking,” but they simply don’t understand. Not my problem.) A lot of the time, the people I “collect” stick around, get to know others in my collection, and the Amigos grow in number.
I’m rambling, and I’m sorry. I never got to say goodbye to Sharon, and aside from casting my voice into the ether and screaming at the top of my lungs that YOU SHOULD NOT BE GONE FROM THIS PLANET, OR HAVE BEEN IN SO MUCH FUCKING PAIN.
Her obituary states that donations should be made in her memory to the ASPCA. I will. Goodnight, Sharon.
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