She had long ago given up thoughts of "raising" him. Fiercely
independent and challenging the conventional, he wasn't destined to be
a small town boy. The city called and he yearned to follow. She
understood little about his lifestyle, knowing only a wife and family
weren't for him. He always had his male friends and the town met him
with a wall, designed to prohibit, forbid and deny. Her personal
struggle had been quiet resignation, reading outdated magazine articles
and watching Phil Donahue, trying to understand, to accept. She always
loved.
He was all she had. He packed and she recalled an earlier time -
a war, a young husband. Born poor, raised poor and the war offered
personal pride and a slim chance for a better life afterward. His
burial had been quick, attended by family and a few friends, in the
coal-laden West Virginia hills. Her mother held her hand and told her,
"Child, this war is like a disease. All the pretty boys are dying." She
brought up her young son, unseen by his father, in a way to make his
Daddy proud. Yet she knew early on; he was different. The sharp click
of the locks on the bag snapped her back. He was ready - a bus to New
York, a new life.
She said her goodbyes fighting the tears and the growing emptiness
that spread from her inner depths out to engulf her.
He found a job, then another and a third. His letters kept her head
spinning. He had always lived fast. Each letter contained a little
money, "to make your life easier," he said. The men he wrote of changed
with each writing and she quit trying to remember. She wrote with news
of Aunt Hattie's gall bladder and cousin Bill's hog farm and she saved
her little bit of money for the visit she wanted to make. She
remembered half hearing the first news reports "gay Plague" and death.
She shivered; she grew cold and her letters encouraged caution. His
were wildly enthusiastic about life and love. And she saved his money
for a later time, a greater need. She continued to read: "Six Months
and Doubling," "Entire Cities in Dread." She understood little, except
that she had to read. She stood alone. He passed over her worry as
trite and dismissed the relevance. She saved his money. His letters
slowed at first, then stopped. She called and didn't recognize his
voice.
"Come please, if you can," he said, "I'm sick." She held his hand
and listened to the machines at work. Her reading indeed paid off.
She knew he needed love and care. She left him only to shower, down the
hall in the staff's area. The nurses understood. She confirmed her
pride in him and her memories of the joy he gave her. For a few hours,
only their eyes spoke. he apologized for her pain and suffering. She
passed over his worry as trite and dismissed the relevance. His eyes
beheld her for the last time and she silently kissed his forehead.
His eyes were closed. The machines stopped and the nurses had both
her elbows in hand. She sat a moment and wept. The service had been quick,
attended by family and a few friends, in the coal-laden hills of West
Virginia. She said nothing. Words wouldn't help. She put her hand on
the box, "Child, this disease is like a war. All the pretty boys are
dying." She put her books and magazines away. She no longer needed to
read. She had grown tired. Later, she watched as the boy down the
street left - a bus to New York, a new life. She dusted off the books
and gave the worn pages to his mother. She knew the boy had always been
different. "Read," she told the woman and walked away. "All the pretty
boys are dying." She sat down a moment and wept.
-author unknown_
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