He Gave Me Life
January 25, 1997. It's a cold, bleak day. Winter time in The City. Its like the world is crying. The streets are foggy, a soft snow falling. Slipping and stumbling in the ice, I make my way between the head stones, careful not to step on any. I have great respect for the dead, as I will shortly become one of them. AIDS. Why did it have to be AIDS? As I walk, I spy eight people coming.
There is a tall man with a pretty girl, a scrawny blonde man close behind carrying a camera, I think, a tall black man with his… boyfriend? I can't tell. Next to them, two women were holding hands. A far way behind was a well dressed man. They all crowded around a single grave.
"Zoom I on the grave of our dearly departed friend Jonathan. Its been a year since his death," narrates the skinny blonde man.
"Shut up, Mark," snaps the man with the Hispanic looking girl. She shakes her head and pats her boyfriends arm lovingly.
"Be nice, Roger," she sighs despairingly, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. The man in a dress steps forward and lays a red rose on the ground, the petals looking like drops of blood. One of the lesbians, a tall white one with very defined jawbones and wavy hair begins to wail. Her partner, a short, attractive black woman nudges her. The white one falls sobbing into her shoulder.
"I miss him so much!" she cries.
"We all do, Mo, honey," the cross-dresser says soothingly. "Here, have a tissue."
"Thanks, Angel." The eight stand in silence, staring blankly, the loud girl, Mo, I suppose, sniffing occasionally.
"It was so unexpected," says the taller gay man. "We never saw it coming. He didn't even have AIDS." The one called Roger turns sullenly, arms crossed. The Hispanic girl speaks up.
"He gave us so much," she chokes.
"He gave me my rhythm," Angel says gravely. "What did he give you, Collins?" Angel's boyfriend puts a protective arm around her waist and sighs.
"He gave me an angel."
"He gave me my cowbell," Mo sobs. "Your turn, Jo," she says to the partner.
"He gave me adventure," she sighs. Mark winds up his camera and focuses once more.
"He gave me a family," he says calmly. The business-looking man steps forward next to him.
"He gave me sympathy."
"He gave me one song," Roger mutters, barely audible.
"He gave me life," whispers his pretty girlfriend.
After a time, the eight go their separate ways. After they have gone far enough, I step forward and brush the snow off the grave.
JONATHAN LARSON
FEBRUARY 4, 1960 – JANUARY 25, 1996
I take the flowers I brought for my friend Gordon, and separate them into halves. I give one half to Jonathan. Kneeling down, I talk to him.
"Can you give me life too?"