I know I'm late in writing this, but I've had to think about it. It's still incomplete.
We began our relationship fucking like bunnies. Glad I wasn't the fertile kind. We spent our fiftieth anniversary talking quietly about politics and family. I remember once in our on again/ off again relationship suggesting that if we were still together ten years later, we get married. Thank god we never did that. We probably wouldn't be half so happy to see each other now.
I've been wondering how many times I left you. Was it fifty? I got so good at it when we lived up Emigration Canyon I could bag all my possessions in minutes and leave while you were reading the paper or playing the guitar. I imagined the only sign you had I was leaving was the screech of my tires as I peeled out of the driveway. I hadn't been diagnosed bipolar then, but I certainly was. I did try to talk to you about the things missing from our relationship that made me so desperately unhappy, but you didn't really hear me. Or if you did, you didn't seem to care.
The best thing you did for me was give me the confidence to inhabit my body, to enjoy my sexuality.
The worst thing you did was not being receptive to reading what I wrote. You once read a letter I wrote to you and your only comment was, "nice handwriting." What a condescending fuck you were. It's only now, now that you're so far away and the words are printed for everyone else to read, you read me. And yet, I was your audience... Of course you're talented. Of course I loved hearing you play. You are the best. But why couldn't you read me? The lack of reciprocation was ... still is ... painful.
But of course I love you. You are more my family than any member of my "real" family every was. I will always love you. I will always want to see you when you're near. Happy Anniversary Tom.