I am in the winter of my life. The spring bud of youth has long since flowered and withered. Now—as a brittle branch, I wait for that invariable silent storm that will snap me to the ground. Or in the ground, rather.

Yesterday I learned of a long ago friend’s recent death. When one is my age there’s a curious rite wherein one Googles obituaries. It provides a smug sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that one remains among the living.

We were much more than friends. There was a brief window in the 1980s that we were—to use that insipid term, lovers.

I’m trying to remember when we first met. I was part of a friend circle that was more like a sisterhood sorority. We were all cut from the same late Seventies gay cloth: dark haired, dark eyed, hairy chested, smokers, and most importantly—dancers. While I can’t recall specifics I’m pretty sure I fell into bed the first night he bought me a beer.

I wasn’t looking for anything serious and he wasn’t looking for anything serious so we decided to be unserious together. And while we frequented the dance clubs as a couple there were those wee hour occasions that found me cutting through the cigarette fogged beauties to shout loudly enough to a passing friend over the languid beats of ‘can-you-feel-it’—-“have you seen Scott?”

It was my country boy naiveté that shielded my heart: he used to sneak away to the bookstore stalls nearby. Sometimes he’d taxi further north to the bathhouse. But all was well when my spare apartment key would click access around 5am. His smokey breath and mustache scruff at the nape of my neck were enough to keep me around. That—-plus his penis. We were young, handsome, and presumably going to live forever. When you’re 20-something the world is so blissfully hopeful.

In the spring of 1981 he suggested we share an apartment and he began a search in that part of town slick realtors call “up and coming.” His timing was off: I’d literally bumped into a guy on the way to the bathroom at a Sunday tea dance during the autumn of 1980. As ‘our’ weeks turned into months my heart was about to get serious. Serious enough that I turned down a job offer in New York at a Madison Avenue ad agency. But that story is for another time.

The last time I saw him was when he joined a dozen or so friends at ‘our’ condo to ring in 1982. I seem to recall a ‘thank-you-for-the-party’ followup phone call. While there’s much to bitch about regarding me and my ex partner one thing is fact: we knew how to entertain. But I digress.

I don’t know what happened. He vanished. Then folks started dropping like flies from AIDS. Then my career took off. Then the internet was invented. Then the Towers fell. And then my partner was an out of control alcoholic—I moved out…and life just quickly marches forward until one lands on yet another obituary where part of one’s heart skips a beat for a lost time and place.

Many years ago we were (me and the ex) entertaining other couples at a holiday dinner and while marveling at my artistry with a jelled cranberry salad ring a friend casually asked “…why do you go to all this trouble.”

I didn’t skip a beat: “I want to make memories. We must have memories.”

Rest in peace dear one. Your memory is alive here.