At the Intersection of Bitter and Sweet

Yesterday a child died when a school bus collided with a dump truck near Kuna, at the intersection of Deer Flat and Happy Valley Roads. Just a country block from the corner I'd turn onto to go from my house to Ingrid's when we were teenagers in Idaho. I instantly looked at every news story I could find, hoping that I would not recognize the last name of the child as one that might be related to anyone I used to know.

When I'd read all I could, I thought to look at the site for the Kuna School District, and then the staff list, curious whether any of the teachers I'd once had were still around.

Though they were not, because I'm old and they're way older, there was the name of a former student, one of Ingrid's classmates. One who had been particularly awful to her back in the day. One who, when they met later at class reunions, she had come to like after all.

I was reminded of Ingrid's ability to evolve, of her big heart, of her unshakable ties to her home in Idaho and all that her home and family meant to her. Though she grew and changed mightily in the nearly 32 years I knew her, she also maintained that kernel of farm-kid-ness that was so essential to her. It was a pleasure to watch the changes and the lack of change, and a lesson for me.

I don't intend ever to return to that place. Ingrid's funeral was the last time for me. It's too hard now, knowing I have no one to talk to about it. But it will always be her home, and that's enough for me.

Wherever you are, Ingrid, I'm there.

Happy Birthday, Ingrid

Today is your birthday, Ingrid, and we are all missing you.

I just talked to a friend who told me about a dream she'd had, and we agreed that you'd have made hay with it. Lesbians! Aliens! Lesbian aliens! We both laughed to think what you'd have done with her odd and funny dream. It surely would have been even more odd, even funnier, by the time you were through.

I miss your good and bright brain, Ingrid. You were so smart, so quick-witted. I miss my verbal sparring buddy.

Happy birthday, dear, sweet Ingrid. I hope you are celebrating, wherever you are. I love you.

Happy Gay Day, Ingrid

Today is 36 years since we came out to each other, Ingrid. I love this day. I love that I know it exists and I love that it exists because of you, pal. Wherever you are, I know it's the gayest place ever, thanks to you.

Here's to the high school darkroom where we shared our first kiss, where we said out loud to each other who we were, where we really started the process of growing up. Where we first said I love you.

And here's to you, Ingrid Wilhite, lesbian extraordinaire. I miss you, first love. I miss you, friend.

Hell, I even miss your damn accordion.

Five Years On

Will there be a time when I'm not missing you, Ingrid? I don't guess that the five-year anniversary of your death is the right time for that question, but I think it's moot anyway. I will always miss you.

It's not just on this day that I re-live your loss. It's most days, but this one is the hardest. I so wish that the world still had you in it, that the people who already loved you still had you there, that those who never got to know you had had that chance. It's such a void, that space where you used to be. How many movies didn't get made, how many songs didn't get passed around to your friends, how many cool things never got your stamp of approval and thus made us all a little cooler thanks to you?

There were many times when you might have questioned your impact on other people. There were no times when your impact was less than huge. You were just that sort of person: the standout.

I sure wish you were standing beside me, beside all of us, right now. God damn it, how I hate that you are never, ever coming back.