I accidentally recorded this at Ruth's house one evening, on my then new camera. For some reason I downloaded it and found it on my computer after Steve had passed away. It's the only visual and audio recording of him of which I am aware. I rarely look at it. I can easily still hear his voice in my mind and I know what he looks like with my eyes closed. There are times I can sit silently and remember every tactile aspect of his body. I don't do this consciously, but he comes to my mind often. Does this torment me? Not really. I realize that had he lived through his five forms of chemotherapy, he would be chronically sick until he eventually passed away, probably within the first five years after "recovery," or "durable cure," as the nurse at Yale-New Haven once stated. Who would want anyone to live through that?
Most of my memories are not of Steve's demise. Certain images of our time together remain with me, such as the time we sat on a pier in Key West watching the sun set. He turned to me and with a beatific smile he said, "I love you," or the first day we drove down the Red Road in Puna, amazed at the beauty of the Hawaiian coastline surrounding us. We sat on a cliff watching dolphins cavort in the ocean and we held hands and kissed. These are the moments I hold to my heart.
This moving image is a part of my letting him go. To move forward I relinquish him to a deeper, sweet memory filled with glorious moments. Now is the time to share it with his friends and family. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.
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