"Art isn't easy..."

Today, Lionel's two younger brothers stopped by to pick up some mementos from among his things. It was great to see them again. The visual and vocal resemblance to their brother is SO strong. That, coupled with the fact that they went through his entire hospitalization, illness, his passing and funeral...makes them my closest living link to Lionel now, and two of the very few people who understand, very specifically, my loss and despair.

They are both extremely sensitive (just like their brother) but the oldest is the strong, stoic one. He tries to hold his feelings in and keep it together. Lionel's younger brother is more openly emotional, like me, and I could tell that he also was struggling with the experience of going through Lionel's belongings.

LBJ didn't have much of monetary value, but his proudest possessions were three Jacob Lawrence prints that he had mounted and framed at an expensive framing shop across the street.

This was -- and remains -- a total shock to me, because he never expressed any interest in art. I could never get him to go to a gallery or museum and he hated spending money. But this was back when he was working, and over a period of about two months, these prints appeared in the apartment. He gave one to me for my birthday. Now, that I think about it, that was perhaps the only thing he ever really bought me in over 25 years.

The other two, he hung proudly on the wall in the living room...along with one of those light-up waterfall illusion paintings that he found in an alley and dragged home. He knew I hated it and thought it was tacky, but he was so attached to it that, after awhile, I stopped complaining about it...and stopped looking at it.

Fortunately, his younger brother wanted that one, too. Must be a straight male thing...along with those paintings of dogs playing cards and beer can collections. Anyway, I thought I'd be glad to see it gone at last. But now that it is, I realize how much it announced Lionel's presence in the apartment, and I miss it in a strange kind of way.

Overall, the walls look very empty now. I have other art that I eventually will hang. But, for the first time, the apartment no longer looks exactly as it did when he was here. That hurts much more than I expected. There is something irrevocable and final about it. Lionel's niece and nephew were also scheduled to stop by today for some of his things. I knew this was coming...but I guess I was never really going to be ready for it.

Up...and down.

It's no secret that I have been profoundly depressed, since the Sunday morning ambulance ride that took Lionel away from our apartment for the last time. His hospitalization, his death, funeral, the struggle to face holidays in St. Louis with my family, everything since then has kept me in a deep state of despair.

This morning, I had to walk the few blocks to work for a quick errand. For the first time in ages, it was not grey, gloomy, rainy, or snowing. I was surprised at how a little bit of sunshine seemed to lift my mood.

On the walk back to the apartment, I was just beginning to think that maybe the upcoming change in seasons might somehow help me marshall the resolve to go on, when I encountered a couple of guys cleaning the street and raking up leaves in the tiny park in front of the 7-11. From their coveralls, I could tell they were workers on the neighborhood clean-up crew, hired by local merchants to maintain the area.

I recognized one of them as a casual acquaintance I hadn't seen in quite awhile. He was actually more of LBJ's friend than mine. We chatted briefly, and just as I was about to continue on my way, he asked about Lionel.

It was like being kicked in the stomach. I could tell that he hadn't heard, so I felt compelled to give him the briefest possible update. He seemed genuinely surprised and sorry at the news.

I headed on home, no longer noticing the sunshine, wondering instead how many more of these encounters I will have, as the weather warms up and Lionel's many, many buddies emerge from hibernation due to the end of winter weather.

3 A.M.

A friend of mine is crashing at my place. Sleeping in the living room. Awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of him, rustling around, getting up, going to the bathroom.

The sound was so familiar, flickering light from the t.v. in there visible through my partially opened bedroom door.

I had to force myself not to get out of bed, go up front and look. Had to remind myself how much time had passed, and that I wouldn't see Lionel sitting on the edge of the sofabed eating his usual, late night sandwich or smoking a cigarette.

I knew it wasn't, but I wanted it to be him...so badly.

I'm still here. He's still gone.

To be honest, I haven't been posting as much because to write about him, I have to think about him...and it hurts too much to think about him.

Some times are harder than others. One of the worst is when I first get home from work. His name is still on our mailbox when I check it in the lobby. Occasionally, there is still even mail for him.

I slowly climb the one flight of stairs, then there's that crushing moment before I unlock the apartment door, when it still feels like I will open it and he will be standing there at the stove cooking dinner, only to turn around, grin and say, as always, "Heeeeeeey, buddy! There he is." Or, if I'm late, he'll be sprawled there on the sofa in front of the t.v. eating a sandwich and smoking a cigarette: "It's about time you got home. The mail's on your bed. Nothing but junk. It's almost time for "Jeopardy."

But, when I open the door no one is there. He's gone. Forever.

An agonizing journey...

It's been awhile since I've posted in this blog. Not because I haven't been thinking of Lionel...quite the opposite -- I haven't been able to stop. For a little over a week, my 9-5 job has been brutally busy and stressful, so much so that when I get home, all I want to do is climb into bed, pull the covers over my head and go to sleep until the next morning, which usually seems to arrive in about two hours.

But despite my hectic days and exhausted nights, I've found that thoughts of Lionel seep into every random moment, every tiny bit of downtime during the day. At night, when I finally do get to bed I think I will fall asleep immediately...then lay awake for hours with fragments of memories running through my mind. I find myself involuntarily replaying every single experience with him, in a patchwork jumble of thoughts and feelings.

His family has not yet come by to retrieve his belongings,. Some I moved into his closet for safekeeping, others I can't bear to disturb. Every time I begin to feel that the pain is easing up a bit, a moment sneaks up on me, revealing that it is just as strong as ever.

Monday, I had to got to Baltimore for my job, which meant getting up early and taking the commuter train. I'd gotten used to the drill last year while Lionel was in the hospital, when there was an IT project to complete in the Baltimore office that required my presence several times. It was always stressful, because I hated being so far away from the hospital that I couldn't get there at a moments notice. It was a somber ride on those grey winter mornings. I tried listening to music to distract myself, but I couldn't help wondering what was going on in the ICU. Was he awake? Was he comfortable? Was he frightened? Lonely? Disoriented? Crying? Was the hated ventilator tube down his throat, or was he miserable with the breathing mask? Were his wrists tied too tightly to the bed? Was he struggling against his restraints? I couldn't wait until my work was finished... and then the train back to D.C. couldn't come quickly enough or travel fast enough. All I wanted was to get to D.C., back to the hospital, see him with my own eyes, reassure him that he wasn't abandoned. Touch him. Hug him. Watch over him.

The last time I'd made this trip, was the day after Lionel died. It was agony to have to go. The work was complex and problematic and the day ran long. I was racing to get back to the city because I had a show that night. It was the first performance of a new play and I had to be there, but my mind and heart weren't in it. I survived the evening, propped up by friends, then went home to an empty apartment where the reality of Lionel's death at last began to hit me.

This past Monday, all it took was the train pulling out of the station, the familiar landscape gliding by outside the window to bring it all back. One of the most horrible, painful times of my life. I cried all the way to Baltimore, I just couldn't stop. Listening to my Ipod just made it worse. No matter what music I selected, all of the songs sounded so sad.

By the time we arrived at Penn Station, I had given myself a headache from the crying and had to go in the men's room and splash water on my face to look presentable. The cab ride to the office gave me time to pull myself together, fortunately the driver wasn't talkative. When I got upstairs, everyone was preoccupied and I was able to hide the state I was in until I got busy with work.

This time, my return to D.C. did not mean hurrying to the hospital to check on Lionel. That sobering realization was all I was able to think about the entire way back. Again, my eyes filled with tears, blurring the passing landscape. Another grim ride that seemed to last forever.