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  • It’s not funny haha
    It’s not even funny sad
    I don’t know what it is, or why I thought it was funny in the first place.

    I’m sitting next to your sister at the funeral.
    We are practically holding hands even though we barely know one another
    I don’t know why I am sitting so close to her-
    maybe it’s my way of inserting myself into your life?

    During your eulogy I must have been staring at you intently
    In between the crying and the family members hugging
    The bad music that funeral parlors play
    She turns to me with such certainty and asks,

    “How long have you been in love with my brother?”

    I want to say, “As long as I can remember.”
    But I realize that this is the sort of stuff for the movies, and I can clearly remember times in my life that I did not know him.

    So, I just shake my head and my eyes turn sad.
    Maybe it’s the moment, or the funeral.
    I reply, “Maybe you should ask him the same thing.”

    She asks me, in a near whisper, like we are friends in high school passing notes during math class, “What keeps you apart?”
    I pause, look around, seeing your life so clearly, and tell her,

    “Just about everything.”

    That’s supposed to sound like a line from a movie, but there is so much truth to it, that it weighs me down. I want to keep talking. I want to tell her the whole story.
    But I keep my mouth shut.

    I think the better answer would be, “we were too afraid.”
    "It was the unknowing."

    Later, when the funeral is over, you look at me from across the room with the saddest eyes I have ever seen you have.

    You don’t have to say anything.
    I know.

    I know it so well, and love you so much that tears start streaming down my face as I walk to you.
    This has nothing to do with the funeral or whoever died.
    But because I know you, I know that you feel like you lost a part of yourself.
    I hold you.
    Tell you how terribly sorry I am.

    Then you are ushered out of the room with your family.
    Your kids.
    Little tow heads, I call them, lovingly.
    And you are such a good dad.

    I turn to look for your sister to show her a living example of exactly what I am talking about.
    But she’s nowhere to be found.
    And it’s probably for the better.

    You invite me to some church to have some sandwiches after the burial.
    I say that I should probably get back home.
    Not because I don’t want to be there with you, but because I know if I stay I will continue to be the 3rd wheel in your life that has become increasingly more difficult to maintain.
    More difficult for me to witness.
    Not because I am jealous, but because you are so good, and I feel like the black spot on a white tablecloth, holding on.

    Instead I say, “When you come back to Chicago can we get coffee?”
    You say yes, despite us both knowing that you don’t drink coffee.

    If this were a movie, the next shot would be of me in a diner, ordering coffee from a waitress, lipstick on, and my hair up, waiting for you to come, knowing full well that you won’t.

    It would probably be raining.
    But the coffee would be warm.
    And I would take two pink packets of Sweet and Low and sprinkle them into my coffee.
    Stir with a spoon.
    And wait.

    And that's the thing about our love that isn't particularly sad.
    But over time, just is.
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