My working week and my Sunday rest,
Basking in the tropical sun, he reveled in the relief it afforded his muscles. He had grown so accustomed to finding them stiff and uncooperative. It was a nuisance having to fight his own body in order to do anything. It was one of the few things that made him realize, not only that he was aging, but that he was human after all. It had been so easy to convince himself otherwise for so long, to shut out basic human need and push himself to do more, more, more until his body was too exhausted to go on. Even then he did not stop for long.
Back then—a strange term, when in reality it was not so very long ago, though it felt like a century separated him from that time—back then, his only form of rest was in spirit, not in body. Back then, when he was in danger of wearing himself down, he sought out a friend whose company was a better balm than any pharmacy could supply. One night with Charles would rejuvenate him better than a month of rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
But those golden days in Boston could not last. Not even the tarnished silver days with Charles in Washington and Sam in Boston or Europe or Canada or touring the country, could last forever. Even when they were thousands of miles apart, simply sitting down to write to Charles, to feel that channel of communion open to him, knowing that this scrap of paper would make its way to a sympathetic heart, to the hand of one who loved him, was enough to ease his spirit. And seeing even the shortest note from his dear friend did so much more. The physical distance was never ideal, but it had never diminished their love for each other in the slightest. In the end, they had done that themselves.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
It’s not true. It can’t be true. It isn’t supposed to happen this way, so it can’t happen this way. Charlie is younger, very nearly a decade younger than he is, and is supposed to outlive him. Charlie has to outlive him. This letter is lying. This letter must be lying. He can’t bear the alternative.
Charles dead? Say rather that the sun had gone out. Tell him that the tide had ceased to flow and he would more easily believe it. Tell him that Jesus had risen again, that the moon was made of cheese, that he and Julia had had a happy marriage—tell him anything, but not this. Never this.
But, he knew, Charles had never taken care of his health. He had come from a delicate family, and had done nothing to protect his own fragile being. Sam winced as he thought of the last time he had seen Charles: dull, miserable, addicted to morphine, not even trying to survive. It had frightened Sam then. Enough so that he had more or less abandoned him to his chosen fate—but now…now…
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
But it was true. It was a cruel truth, but he knew that truth it must be. And to think, to think he had parted with him on such terms… to think that Sam had let the greatest happiness of his life go to pieces over such a trifle… He understood, now, what people meant when they said a part of them had died—for how could he live without the hope that he and Charles might soon be reconciled? How could he live knowing that Charles was gone? He felt as though his soul was crumbling; as though everything in him was crumbling—heart, soul, spirit, mind—whatever there was, it was going to pieces. Nothing was alright. There was no hope, no one for him to reach out to, nowhere to seek comfort. Even the death of his infant son had not left such a gaping hole in the fabric of his life; then, he had had Charles to comfort him in some small measure. Now, he had no one. No one. Nothing was alright. Nothing would ever be alright ever again. He buried his face in his hands, and wept.
