Categories: Lifestyle

Tiny love stories: “I saw a handsome man captivating the room”

The one I saved

Jack told me about his heroin addiction in a handwritten 12-step apology letter. It was so painful to read, I threw it in the trash. I only knew that his cocaine habit destroyed us when we lived together. Over the years, I feared finding him. Would he be homeless? Worse? Three decades later, camping alone in Florida, I remembered him showing me how to erect a tent and cook outdoors. I sent an email to an old address, to say thank you. I heard about it! Jack was sober, serene. Signed: “affectionately and always with love.” This note I saved. – Diane Daniel

A picture of everything

As I write a social media post to commemorate your fifth anniversary, a mental montage plays: you twist chubby legs against a shifting table; You laugh your first laugh – pure, precious, sweet. In current reality, you put on an Owlette costume at Home Depot (fire-red mask, wings). Meanwhile, I fumble on my phone to string together a caption expressing what five years of you means to me (everything), to convey half a decade of moments that passed like sifted sand. I give up, look up and see you – the span spread, soaring confidently down aisle 9, the reds releasing at a distance. – Abigail Wasserman

Get on the moving train

As I looked out my dark Bronx window on the passing train, I knew I was finally ready to leave my broken relationship (for years, she and I longed to find partners of our own genders). Later that evening, at a friend’s party, I saw a handsome man captivating the room with his dancing. After sunrise, we were among the last guests. Robert and I danced together beautifully, and as he leaned against me, I realized I could never let him go. He moved into my apartment the following week. Last month we celebrated 34 years of love together. – John Perez

Dad’s future funeral mass

“Dad, when you die, who should say the funeral mass? You haven’t recently found a church and a priest you like. Is there anything I can do to help?” My father, Harry, 96, had just buried his 97-year-old brother, Bill. The Catholic priest saying the eulogy didn’t even know Bill. His eulogy was flat, missing the life of my uncle. Dad replied, “Sal, it doesn’t matter; I’m dead.” Somehow it was liberating for both of us. For Dad, it really won’t matter. As for me, our family will celebrate his life, his fire, his kindness and his legacy in our own way. – Sally Santen

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