My friend and companion Roger Burnett
died thirty-three years ago yesterday. He was forty years old and he
died of AIDs. Befitting the spiritual stature of this greatest of
men, he died during the fireworks.
At his wake, his dear other, wore a t-Shirt from a New York City Independence Day celebration. The shirt
had a graphic of fireworks and the word “Independence”.
We listened to Mahalia Jackson and then
had an endless buffet of food made with love by his friends and
family.
The world has ever since been a lesser
place because he died. He was beloved and thirty-three years could
be thirty-three minutes as far as my heart goes.
I share this because I am in awe that I
have lived so many years beyond Roger, that at seventy-two years old
I am writing this. I have now documented the soul of my soul, the
angel who saw me through the desolation trail, my eternal inspiration
and deepest sorrow.
Thanks for reading.
Love to you all.
His flower in celebration of his life... the Matilija Poppy
