It has been nearly impossible developing original language. Finding fresh explanations. Breaking new words to better fit old desires. Capturing the code of communication between us.
Words can just be tricky that way.
But I still had to try.
Language remains the only bridge between where we were and where she is destined to go. Because we were in very different places. Even though we were walking there together.
We started at the park. The one where we used to meet. Years ago. In the before times. Back when life wasn’t this fucking complicated.
She confessed to wanting to find her spot. And expressed her gratitude that her favorite fox, the one sporting an alarming amount of grey in his fur, was there to help her.
Because she didn’t want to hunt alone.
We ignored the modern, sterilized fields. The ones neatly carved out and generically labeled. Those flat acres of bland, easy to mow mediocrity. The ones inoffensively tacked on to the fringes of her city.
They just aren’t interesting.
So the day started with more historical options. Down near where three frozen rivers meet in the heart of her city. A place with trees and hills and character. And if you remain still enough in your grief, the deer meandering over from the nature preserve just might thunder across the crest of a snowy slope unexpectedly. Almost close enough to touch.
In my life, I have been on countless cemetery stomps. In every season. And every kind of weather. I have even stomped them in other countries. I find their peacefulness centering. The impeccable landscaping somehow soothes the more chaotic edges ripping to get out.
But I have never once participated in a preemptive stomp—hers was my first.
We talked about it openly walking through the stones. Faced it head on as a late January sun reflected back off the tired snow. But we still refused to say out loud the name of the thing killing her.
Because fuck that word. And fuck its metastatic thievery.
She started the conversation by stating emphatically that a traditional burial isn’t an option. Because the whole concept of embalming is a barbaric ritual. One which we both find horrifying.
Not surprisingly, our views on a great many topics align neatly—maybe the depth of that similarity is what prevented us from ever being a good fit. At least as far as romantic considerations are concerned. And that Saturday afternoon discussion on the topic of final choices only seemed to cement the durability of our commonality.
In an effort to make her smile, I pointed out the hilarity of how many homophobic people have been buried for their eternity with a pronged plastic plug pushed inside their most intimate pucker. Because when a dead body is pumped full of nasty chemicals, it has to be as watertight as possible. And that means plugging all the holes.
Even in death, there’s still apparently an opportunity for butt stuff.
Ignoring the thought of slowly turning into a fetid pool of goo over the course of forever, we followed the deer tracks over to the memorial gardens. A peaceful little grotto set aside for the distribution of ashes. And the installation of tasteful markers of memory.
Since the body farm of her choosing isn’t currently accepting new additions—she joked about how fun it would be going back to college —cremation seemed the most logical choice.
But those ashes would need a home. A small parcel of real estate destined to be hers forever. Some tiny bit of the planet taken back and consecrated with the significance of her memory.
And she wanted to make the right choice.
The idea of professionally pre-planned shenanigans was ignored. That’s not the way we lived. And we sure as fuck don’t want to die that way. It’s better to be weird. Unconventional. Even after these heartbeats inevitably cease.
Ignoring the cold, we drifted to other parts of her city. Walked over the big bridge spanning the river. The one reimagined and rebuilt when her downtown was revitalized in an effort to make it trendy. And more approachable.
Maybe that could be her spot.
Born a “water baby,” she seemed open to the idea. One of the few points upon which we could never agree. Because even the idea of deep water freaks me the fuck out. And I have never once been comfortable on a bridge. Something about the blackness underneath the questionable engineering leaves me unsettled—I’m not wired properly to trust numbers that much.
But being there with her made it somehow okay.
Backlit by the bridge, and a skyline familiar to me since I was little, she didn’t look at all sick. In fact, she looked fucking beautiful. And for a brief moment, there under the highlighted steel, her city seemed almost…gentle.
Standing under the lights, I tucked chestnut hair behind a pale ear. A bolder man would have leaned in for the kiss. But the situation was delicate. And called for caution.
With the traffic buzzing in the background, I asked her sincerely if it would be easier if I went first. I could blaze that trail. Be the trial run. Forge for her a joyful welcoming somewhere in the unknown expanse of that next place.
Using new language, I crafted my arguments. The ones designed to camouflage the selfishness of wanting to be spared the enormous emptiness of having to live in a world without her in it.
But she saw right through my bullshit. Called me a silly fox. Pulled me into a hug impossible to forget. Confessed to needing me. Explained how my words, and presence, help make the uncertainty somehow tolerable. Even for just a little while.
She made me promise to not be selfish; I made sure she knew just how much she is loved.
I don’t know where she’ll end up. No decision was reached; no certainties were decided.
We still have a little time.
And this grey fox is going to make sure it fucking counts.
