from Jon
Brooks was the only true, 100% soulmate I've ever had. We were almost the same age; I was born in January and Brooks in May. We exchanged literally thousands of emails, and often discussed Weighty Topics, like life and death. Our views on that were virtually identical.
We also talked about art quite a bit.
We only met face to face on, I think, six occasions, and never alone.
But another thing we shared was a relief in correspondence by email. It's been mentioned here how much she loved her computer. That's another thing we discussed, and we found a shared desire just to be alone a lot -- actually, most of the time. She felt snug and comfortable in her apartment, where she could think deep thoughts, keep in touch with friends and family by phone and computer (her phone rang almost constantly the two or three times I visited her apartment), do her artwork until she was too tired, weak, and just plain out of it to continue, and commune with Abby. We both wondered if we were at least borderline agoraphobic, and I said I didn't think so, but I wasn't all that sure, either.
Unlike Brooks, I seem to have no talent for making friends, and the tiny handful I've had of close friends, including Brooks (by "close" I mean friends who can exchange confidences, as well as those you feel an affinity with otherwise) -- that tiny handful is rapidly dwindling to zero, with the loss of both Brooks, and, in 2000, the love of my life, David S., who also succumbed to cancer, also at least in part because of immunodeficiency ruling out aggressive treatment.
I spent two hours, at least, yesterday, and more time today, trying to think of something to write here, with no luck. I told Rick all I could come up with were generalities. But he told me I ought to write those anyway, so here, I have. This seems more about me than about Brooks, but I know two things with certainty: (1) She wouldn't mind. (2) I miss her many times every day.
We also talked about art quite a bit.
We only met face to face on, I think, six occasions, and never alone.
But another thing we shared was a relief in correspondence by email. It's been mentioned here how much she loved her computer. That's another thing we discussed, and we found a shared desire just to be alone a lot -- actually, most of the time. She felt snug and comfortable in her apartment, where she could think deep thoughts, keep in touch with friends and family by phone and computer (her phone rang almost constantly the two or three times I visited her apartment), do her artwork until she was too tired, weak, and just plain out of it to continue, and commune with Abby. We both wondered if we were at least borderline agoraphobic, and I said I didn't think so, but I wasn't all that sure, either.
Unlike Brooks, I seem to have no talent for making friends, and the tiny handful I've had of close friends, including Brooks (by "close" I mean friends who can exchange confidences, as well as those you feel an affinity with otherwise) -- that tiny handful is rapidly dwindling to zero, with the loss of both Brooks, and, in 2000, the love of my life, David S., who also succumbed to cancer, also at least in part because of immunodeficiency ruling out aggressive treatment.
I spent two hours, at least, yesterday, and more time today, trying to think of something to write here, with no luck. I told Rick all I could come up with were generalities. But he told me I ought to write those anyway, so here, I have. This seems more about me than about Brooks, but I know two things with certainty: (1) She wouldn't mind. (2) I miss her many times every day.
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