Eight Years On

Hi Ingrid, it's me again. Today is the eighth anniversary of your death, and I'm here remembering you, as I do most every day.

I walked around New York City today, thinking of you. Remember when we spent Thanksgiving break in 1979 in the city, eating gyros and cheesecake, and spotted Jodie Foster on the street? We were so wide-eyed about the big city, so happy to be exploring it together, so anxious to drink it all in. It was our first grown-up vacation together.

Things have changed a lot since that time, but what hasn't changed is how much I miss you, today and every day. I so wish you'd been with me today, seeing what I saw, from the crazy homeless guy whom I'm sure you would have talked to, to the lady with the scary fingernails who was on the subway, and everything in between.

Maybe I'll go have a gyro and some cheesecake in your honor, pal. Maybe I'll talk to a homeless guy and tell him you said hello.

I love you.

Happy 56, Ingrid

Another birthday we don't get to talk, Ingrid. I hope it's a good one for you, if there's something after this life. I hope it's full of sugar and spice, and a lot of naughty. You were nice enough on your own to not need any more of that.

OK, I'll finally say it: I'll always be older than you. I know that if you can read that, you'll laugh in the way that I always laughed at you on your birthday for being older than I.

Your birthday is the only time I'm ever bothered by my age. It's against the natural order of things for me to be the older one. It's against the natural order of things for you to be gone.

I Love This Day

Happy 38th Our Gay Day, Ingrid. The years without you are adding up, but so are all the gay years we set off on so long ago when we came out together. I didn't expect to have to celebrate the years by myself, but how lucky am I that I still get to celebrate them at all.

Here's to being out--really, really, really out. Thanks to you, and thanks to me.

I miss you, Ingrid. But I'm glad I didn't have to wait until I was an adult before getting to be who I am. And I'm glad you didn't have to wait either.

I love you, pal. Happy our gay day.

I Hate This Day

Every year on the day before today, I re-live that horrible middle-of-the-night phone call that told me you were going away.

And every year on this day, I re-live the phone call that told me you were gone. Gone while I sat in an airport, waiting for my flight to see you. A trip that never happened, a hello and a goodbye that never happened.

There will be no goodbye to you. Once I said hello to you, a million years ago, all the goodbyes in the world could never stop that one hello.

The Things That Don't Go Away

Mario Cuomo died today, Ingrid. Remember when you were doing tech for the 1984 Democratic National Convention and were there for his famous speech? I have a fantastic letter from you telling me all about it, and the excitement you felt then. We always did enjoy preaching to the fellow members of our liberal choir, didn't we?

There are so many things that make me think of you, I don't believe I'll ever run out.

Today one of those things went away.

Damn, I miss you, pal. You'll never go away from me.

And They Did

Gay people in Idaho got married today. Done deal in your home state, Ingrid, for the marrying type. 

There is no way we would not have talked on the phone today, were you here.

This is me, calling you.

Ring Those Wedding Bells

You should be here right now, Ingrid, celebrating the fact that Idaho is being pushed into the 21st century. A judge has finally ruled that gay folks in Idaho deserve to be allowed to marry, same as anyone else. And though it's not over yet, it's looking good for our sisters and brothers, Ingrid.

And one of the women who sued? She's from Kuna.

You would have loved this moment.

I do.

Happy Birthday, Pal

Happy birthday, Ingrid. You should be 55 right now, and taking a call from me about how old you are. You should be laughing, biking, eating cake, petting cats, playing the accordion, working, talking to your mom on the phone, making plans for a trip to Idaho or Europe or Carmel, wondering if you've got enough coffee (as if!), making a joke, making love, making a life.

You should be here, with us, celebrating. I guess we have to do that for you, now. So here it is:

You were irreplaceable, though I didn't always know that because I am sometimes a stupid human. The space you left will always be empty. And it will always be full, too. Of memories.

Happy birthday, old girl. I hope that whatever is next includes cake, lots of cake.

Love, Caren

Happy Our Gay Day, Ingrid!

It's that good day in the year, Ingrid, the 37th anniversary of the day we came out to each other.

Thank you, pal, for being there, for being half of what we were together, and most importantly, for being my friend all those years afterward. That first love we experienced together has lived in my heart all these years as the deepest sort of friendship. Thank you.

I miss you, Ingrid. So much. So much.

Love, Caren

Six Years and Another Loss

Six years today, Ingrid, since I sat in an airport in Florida, trying to absorb the news that you were gone. Six years that seem like forever. Six years that seem like a day.

It still happens, out of the blue, that I realize with shock that you are gone. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. I don't think I'll ever be used to it. It stinks that you don't get to be in the world and that the world doesn't get to know you now. That void doesn't grow smaller with time.

This year, there's another loss to mark. Your pal Iggy Bob, the cat that's in the photo at the top right of this page, finally joined you wherever you are. I hope you are both happy to see each other and thinking of nothing else.

I'm thinking of you. I'm missing you.

I love you, pal.

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.

Some Days

Most days, I go about my life. I think of Ingrid. I remember something, or imagine her reaction to something that's just happened, or daydream about who she might have been now.

And then comes a day, random and painful, when the only thought of Ingrid is that she's gone. I get stuck right there for a while, still crying after all these years. 

When I think about all the other friends and family that hard day must happen to sometimes, it seems it would fill a whole year. A lot of people loved Ingrid. Pick a date, and one of us must always be having that hard day.

Yesterday was my turn again.

Happy Sad Birthday

It's that happy sad day again, Ingrid. Happy birthday, pal, at 53 but 48. I never wanted to catch up to you, ever, and now here we are and I am older than you will ever be.

Last night at midnight, as I thought about how it had just become your birthday, The Rocky Horror Picture Show came on the TV and you know I had to at least watch the first part of that. You took me to that movie for the first time when we were teenagers, and for a million times after that until we both could quote all the dialogue and knew when to duck as the toast flew and the water pistols came out. It was the gayest, most miraculous thing I'd ever seen up to that point, and it was all because of you. And so I sat on my living room floor at midnight and laughed and cried for you, Ingrid. And missed you so much it felt as though my insides were roiling.

And then I laughed again. You were right there with me in that moment. Thank you for that, Ingrid. I love you.

The Big 3-5

It's 35 years ago today that we came out, Ingrid. I'll never forget it, but that seems a silly thing to say. I suppose what I'm really saying is that I'll never forget you and your gay, gay, gay self.

Thanks, Ingrid, for your honesty and bravery. And for how you helped me be honest and brave, too. And for how you let me help you be the same. I suspect we were the first kids to come out in Kuna, Idaho, and survive the experience. Hell, thrive on the experience and become big ol' lesbians. How cool is that, Ingrid?

Happy Ingrid and Caren Coming Out Day, pal. I love you.

Time, Loss

Ingrid, I've been missing you for years now and it never makes a difference. I don't think it ever will. The space you left behind four years ago today is shaped exactly like you, so it's a space no one else can fill. It's like those life-size drawings that kids make in elementary school--giant, outlandish, colorful, true.

Who will ever be so funny, so serious, so brave, so fearful? Who will ever create something that had never existed before from nothing, from something, from less than nothing? Who will ever remember that thing we did that time in that place we went? Who will ever speak that shorthand of friendship born in such a formative time, a lifetime ago? No one but you, Ingrid.

I hope you don't even notice this horrible day, the fourth anniversary of your death. I hope you've moved so far beyond it all that only the music and the stars and the friendship remain. And I hope the same for myself.

Someday.

Love, Caren

Four Years and a Lifetime

Four years. Four years since I heard you laugh at one of my stupid jokes. Four years since I ordered those “I Love Cows” and “The Coolest People Are from Kuna, Idaho” hats for when you were supposed to lose your hair that I never sent you because they arrived the day after you died. You would have worn them proudly. Four years since we said I love you, not knowing that it would be our last chance to tell each other out loud what we felt for almost thirty years. Four years since I told myself (and Caren) that I would not post anything on this blog because my feelings were too private and it was too painful and, anyway, everyone who knows me knows how I feel about you. Well, times and convictions change and here I am. Four years. Wow. I think about you every day, especially when walking alone listening to music and a Carpenters song comes on. I know your love and knowledge of music was as vast as your gigantic CD collection and went way beyond the 70s, but you are most vivid to me when I hear the Carpenters or Abba, music that we shared way back when. You affected my life in many positive ways and I will always be grateful. I miss you, old pal.

--Amy Rubin

Happy Birthday, evermore

Today is your day, kiddo. 52 and counting, but still just 48. It will never be OK that you are not here, Ingrid.

When I think back on all the years and all the months and all the days we knew each other, I can't help but think I'll never meet anyone as important to me as you were. As you are.

Maybe that's the nature of things when you meet young, go through the big milestones together, mark the years together. I don't know.

What I do know is that I'm angry as hell you aren't here, pal. I never stop wishing you could just... come back.

I love you, old girl. Happy birthday.