2001-06-13 - 5:56 p.m.

I remember when he died, in a freak rafting accident. He was away at college, and a few months before my boyfriend had committed suicide. I was a wreck, obviously, and Danny called me from Arizona, in the midst of finals, and asked if I wanted him to come home for the funeral. I said, no, no, stay and take your exams. I thought there would be plenty of time for us. And he called me, irregularly, but always when I needed. Those nights that I'd be up all night, rocking in my bed, trying to assuage the choking pain inside, and my phone would ring. 3 am. And it would be Danny, "why are you up?"

And then someone, I can't remember who, told me he was dead. And I couldn't accept it. Couldn't wrap my mind around it - it was too soon. I remember screaming, literally, in my parents hallway. I remember the tonal striped wallpaper on the wall, sage green, as I slid to the floor.

And I remember, refusing to believe it, that I called his father. And asked for him. Because he couldn't be dead. Couldn't be. And his father, he understood. Told me that Danny died the way he lived, doing what he wanted to do. And I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was trying to pull myself out of a deep hole, and there was someone at the top stamping on my fingers.

I didn't go to the funeral. I couldn't. I went to the cemetary, though. Regularly, for a while. Just a few short steps, from my boyfriend to Danny. And before they put up his headstone, I took red nailpolish and painted I love you on the slab in the grave. I don't think I ever really grieved him. I was too wrecked already - no room for any more pain.

And there he was, this week, in my dreams.

I miss you, man.

Still.

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