It was 1991.
I was a volunteer at a local HIV/AIDS organization. People would come in for anonymous testing and I would deliver their results a week later. Some days were good, and some days there were bad, very bad. I wanted to do more than just deliver results and send people off into the world to deal with what they had just learned, so I joined the organization’s buddy program. They would pair a volunteer with a person who had AIDS to provide companionship and emotional support.
And that’s how I met Dan.
He and I became friends immediately. Had we met under other circumstances, we would have become friends anyway. He was an artist, a gentle soul, and funny as hell. We would laugh — and cry — about life. We shopped together, shared meals, talked on the phone endlessly, sought each other’s advice, and enjoyed music together. [We were even featured together in the paper.]
For many reasons he was no longer close to his family, so I welcomed him into mine. He came to Thanksgiving dinners with me, and I will always love my mother and be forever thankful to my siblings who accepted him and understood my bond with him. I know how much it meant to him.
He died in 1994. I spent his last days with him in the hospital and through his terrible ordeal, he remained positive and worried more about me than himself. For a long time, I thought about him every day. I grieved for the loss of this beautiful man and knew the world would be worse off to no longer have this artist among us. Our time together was not nearly long enough.
I don’t think about him as often now. Time heals the wounds but keeps the beautiful memories. But each year, on December 1, I play his favorite song and I cry for the loss of our friendship.
Because we must never forget.