The weight upon our shoulders was light, but the gravity of your loss mired our hearts and shackled us to this earth. My mind was shock-white and filled with a lack of understanding, a lack of picturing how this world would continue to function without you guiding us. It’s in those moments that I tried to reflect upon the memories I cherish.
###
I lay wrapped in my favorite blue and white quilt, half pretending to be asleep, and hoping that you would not be able to see me. I felt your weight upon the couch next to me,
“Come on let’s go, gotta go, gotta go!” Your voice sang the start to one of my favorite Disney sing-along songs.
“To the Ugly Bug Ball, to the ball to, the ball.”
“And a happy time we’ll have there,” my sleep-thickened soprano added,
We finished together, “One and all, at The Ugly Bug Ball.”
It was one of my favorite ways to wake up, the smell of Folgers and the hint of your Sunflower perfume, amid a frigid morning warmed by the grace of being able to afford the gas bill, and most of all, being in the presence of one of my favorite people.
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I remember when I had my first encounter with racism, at five years old, we’d gone to a 7-11 and you went to the back cooler and I went to the attendant and asked,
“How much is a slurpee?”
“We don’t take food stamps.” The attendant said with a horrible look toward me.
You didn’t know what occurred and paid for our drinks, and when we were down the road, I told you what the attendant told me, and you pulled over.
“I wish you would have told me while we were there.”
“Why?”
“She was being hateful, don’t let anyone ever make you feel like you’re less than they are.”
At the time, I didn’t understand the hurt that I saw in your eyes, and I wondered if I had put that hurt there, but you assured me that I didn’t. We went to the park to feed the ducks and had a great day.
###
When I came out, I feared telling you because I didn’t think I could deal with seeing your disapproval. My heart raced, stomach churned, and my mouth was dry. I approached you as you were sewing a button on a shirt and decided that this was the moment that it needed to happen.
“Grams?”
“Yes, Hito?” you said without looking up at me,
“You love me, right?”
It was then that you smiled and set the shirt down, “Of course.”
“I, uhm, I’m afraid to tell you something important.”
You continued to smile that wonderful smile reaching beyond your eyes and nodded encouragement at me.
“I’m,” I inhaled deeply and felt the wobbling knock of my knees threatening to make me collapse, “I’m gay,”
“I know,” was your immediate response.
You wrapped me in a hug and told me about the ways you knew while I grew up and told me, “I love you no matter what.”
In retrospect, I should have known that you always knew because you shared movies and television shows that were more inclusive in nature than what the late eighties and nineties would allow.
###
I remember the soul-filling experience of walking into the house after a long day and smelling beans cooking in a crockpot, green chile simmering, and homemade tortillas. Those nights would soothe the weariness that the world put upon my shoulders, and you would listen to everything that had occurred throughout my day.
You lived so close to UNC’s campus that sometimes I would stop by between classes and catch a nap on your couch or to scrounge for the fridge stocked with everything that anyone in our family would love to eat.
You were the strength and backbone of our family; you endured so much and asked for nothing in return. We watched over you while you went through heart failure, breast cancer, stomach cancer, and dementia; through the countless hospital stays and chemo treatments I remember seeing you under blankets with your hands held together in prayer.
You persevered with faith in the presence of fear, and you kept urging us to take care of each other and to accomplish our goals. You passed eight months before Covid brought the world to a standstill, and it pains me to think that there was a silver lining to the timing of your death. I don’t think our family would have survived, if one of us brought it to you and had to see you on a respirator again.
You left this world a better place than you found it, and that is something that I strive to replicate.
It has been a year of firsts, and all of them have been difficult. Grieving has been difficult work, and sometimes I feel as though I am not doing it right. I’ve tried to stay as strong as I can, and then there are times when I finally gave myself permission to cry. You visit my dreams frequently, and I can see, smell, hear, and feel you all around. Those dreams are bittersweet because I have you near me and you hold me, cry with me, sing to me, and breathe with me; but when I wake, I must go through the process of remembering that you’ve passed away.
It’s been so hard trying to grieve, a large part of me fears that getting through this process will cost the memory of your voice, laughter, scent, and presence. On a higher level, I know that they won’t be forgotten, but I’m still afraid of losing them.
I’m also afraid of the firsts that are ahead. My future husband and children will have the wonderment of my stories, but they won’t be able to experience the magic that you brought into my life.
But…
For every painful memory or moment that I experience, I am going to try to bring your voice to my mind and give me the guidance I know you’d give. I want to remember the world exactly as it was while you were in it. I want to grow into the person you knew I’d become. I want to be all the things that we dreamt together. Since you’ve left, I’ve had this gentle pressure upon my shoulder pushing me forward, and I know that it’s you giving me the strength I need. There is a lifetime of memories ahead of me, and when we meet again, I can’t wait to share them with you.
I love you more,
J-boy
It’s taken me six years to come to the realization that your response would have been:
Hito, it’s been a year of firsts for you without me present, but I have always been there. The pressure on your shoulder is my hand, reassuring you that you are on the right path. I was there as you walked across the stage to receive your degree at UNC, and I am here now when the world seems like it’s stopped, but I promise you that it hasn’t because there is so much more that you will do.
I know I put pressure on you that I wanted to see your children before I passed, but I want you to know that I am not sad that they will come later in your life. I want you to be ready to give them the world that I wish I could have given you. I’ve told you before, and I will continue, you will make a great father. Your future husband will add love and happiness where the other men didn’t, and you will create the family you are afraid could not be a possibility. They will have the magic of you.
Keep taking care of your mom, and the family, because all of you are what I left to this world.
You are strong and loved.
Love you more,
Grams
Biography: Josh is a proud Aims alumnus who has returned home to the college after receiving a bachelor’s degree in psychology with a minor in sociology from UNC and gaining experience within several other organizations. His writing is more than a craft; the paper, pen, computer screen, and keyboard have served as vital counseling roles throughout his life. There is a specific magic found when he is truly in the moment, allowing the words to flow freely from mind to hand. It is when he is in “the zone” that he finds a unique blend of comfort and excitement, especially as he begins to truly get to know the characters he has created.
An avid gamer, Josh often uses Dungeons & Dragons as a creative laboratory. He is known to build his fictional characters through gameplay first, playing them out at the table to get a feel for their voices and motivations before translating them into his novels. This passion for storytelling was deeply rooted in his developmental years, inspired by his grandmother’s love of writing. His primary goal is to create works of fiction and poetry that center on LGBTQ+ characters because he wants to have younger readers who identify within the community a safe space to relate to characters that make them feel seen. He draws additional inspiration from a diverse range of authors, including TJ Klune, Nicky James, Jay Bell, Holly Black, Mercedes Lackey, and Laurell K. Hamilton.