Dear Hawthorne,
Let me start off by saying, you motherfucker.
But even the anger is tired. I’ve grown used to you not being here to bear it. And still, to this day, my frustration with you is heavily laced with affection. Ass.
You would be 42 today, and I wonder what you’d look like, what you’d sound like.
I see you in her, in this feral thing we named together. I remember the awe in your eyes when you came back to me, the nurse holding her so I could finally see here, and you held my hand. You may not share genetics, but shit, she’s definitely your kid. 100% chaos muppet. We have therapy together, and she’s been officially diagnosed. “ADHD… AF,” the doctor said. You’d have liked her.
I see you in her. She’s brilliant; her vocabulary is absolutely bananas. I remember Tristan telling her something was a four-syllable word, and she wouldn’t have to worry about it for a long time. Yeah, right. This kid understood “non-negotiable” and used the word “consequences” over a year ago. And she’s a little engineer – she wants to know how everything works, and why. She’s going to have the upper hand on you in math in a few years, but don’t worry – she’ll probably be taller than me at that point, too.
She doesn’t remember where the remote is, and sometimes forgets to take off both shoes, but she remembers Ella.
She knows that when we die, our bodies go to the earth, and some part of us goes to the stars; and that’s where you and Oscar – and Ella – are.
We talk about you every day. She recognizes you in pictures, and she’s so drawn to music. She is impatient to read, and on nights she can’t sleep, I find her half-buried in books the next morning.
Things are so different now. I still don’t feel cut out for the suburbs; I ache for our mountains, our house that withstood hurricane floods in a time where we lose hundreds of people at a time to those “storms of the century.” I think centuries got a lot shorter.
I miss our garden, our little budding homestead; our river, our fireplace. I couldn’t stay. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to. You were in every river stone, every wildflower in the field. It was too fresh to bring me comfort then.
Today, I’m going to Nantasket. There are trails to explore that we talked about, and beaches that we walked. I’ll never forget your laugh when you dragged me into the water in early May – it was the first beach I took you to, and had I fully realized your love for the ocean, I would have waited a few months to let the water warm first. Ah well.
There’s a bakery, and a diner. I’m packing my writing stuff, my binoculars, your camera, our fishing gear. I want to be ready for where the day brings me, wherever your memory leads me. I remember how important birthdays were to you. I admit, I tried to work on your birthday last year; it didn’t go well, and I went home. Well, not home – I left work, and I went to the woods.
You would have liked the woods around here.
I know we drove by the highway exit I live closest to a number of times; I know I told you I used to go to Saturday school down there, and you shuddered. Hate to tell you, but if I can afford it, I’m going to send Lucy to those classes, too – she’d love it. By the way, your kid loves rock climbing, and she loves fishing and swimming and baseball. Oh, and skateboarding, though I’m not sure where that one came from.
I don’t want to say that I’m glad you aren’t here, but… fuck, this world has gotten so much scarier since you left it. Much like when the Arab Spring and following wards engulfed the lands that my parents had met and married on, and I was glad they didn’t have to see that… that’s how I feel now. The insurrection and everything that followed, a second term, ever-increasing violence against trans folks, and way too much more to mention… I don’t know if your broken bluebird heard could still sing. I wish for your strength and your presence to help me get through it, but it makes my heart ache to think of you having to endure this current hellscape.
You told me more than once that you never thought you’d make it to 30, that you worried you would be part of the forever 27 club. Instead, you kissed me at 27. And you were supposed to be a one-night stand.
I’m forever grateful that you weren’t.
I miss you. I wish I could be taking today off to celebrate with you, instead of just celebrating you. I’m going to go to the beach, and a coffee shop. Maybe the fishing stop; maybe the liquor store, though I think I have just enough Laphroiagh at home to toast you later. Oh, I gave away your scotch glasses to a friend who will use them as they were meant to be.
The blankets we slept under have too many tears to mend, and I’ve thrown all but one pack of your cigarettes away. Your fishing rod and camera are both in perfect working order.
Your memory lives on; you’re still part of the group chat. It’s funny to think about the thousands upon thousands of messages that are still being sent to you. Facebook says we’re married and reminds me today is your birthday. As if the date wasn’t carved into my heart already.
It’s almost seven AM; time for me to get the kid ready for the day. Actually, it’s hilarious – she hates getting dressed in the morning and tries to lay there like a dead fish. Every morning she reminds me of when you used to do that, just flop back and demand I dress you. How frustrated I’d get, swearing at you while I pulled clothes onto your limp and heavy body, you laying there like deadweight and laughing like a loon the whole time. Good practice for kids, you said, and goddammit if you weren’t spot fucking on. Ass.
I’m going to wrap this up, get her going, get packed up. I’ll talk to you again once I hit the ocean.
I love you so. Happy birthday to you, my OG chaos muppet.
Talk soon.
Love,
me
Queer Mama Rising 