December 6, 1993
Daniel J. Travanti
Harry and Lee lived together for over forty years, then she died, beautiful, brave.
Harry is alone, and the condominium is still being paid for by his son, but Lee won’t be in it.
The hospitality room seemed so big and such a good idea. It was. It doesn’t matter anymore.
The sun shines most of the time, and Harry can’t help looking into faces on the street to see if people are glad today.
I guess he’s glad when they are, but the hospitality room is empty.
They made promises to each other, and kept them.
They made one son and stopped, and he supported them some—now a good deal—now that Harry is alone.
He walks in Santa Monica, but he misses New York, Brooklyn, to be specific. I suppose I want a bunch of money to support myself, because I am never going to make a son.
The hospitality room in this building is not inviting. People smoke in it; I am not welcome.
I walk the streets of Chicago looking into faces to see if they’re glad. It’s cold, but they’re OK, I guess. I’m OK, too. I’m glad to go to the gym on the same floor where they’re smoking. I don’t like that, because I can smell the smoke just outside of the gym.
No escape. I am not married, and I can’t ever be for forty years, to anyone anymore; I make my way keeping the air clear, not being lonely, and not wanting to lose anyone. I will lose ones I love. I’m afraid. I guess I’ll make it.