excerpt from 10 March 2002, Sunday, 145am

I don't think he knows. I've never just told him. I'm not sure why. There seems to be a thin film covering me that keeps me from saying all that I want to say to people. Even to people like him. The people I love.

But that's not it. Not what I'm referring to right now, at least. No, what I want him to know is what he means to me.

Follow me with this story.

If I found out I was dying, I would call those who meant something to me to see me.

After my brothers, my father, my mother, my adopted sister, my sis, my friend mate, my piglet, and my close friends came, I would want him to come. I would have him sit besides me. I would say to him, " As different as we've always been and with all that we've been through, you have made me a better person: you have shown me different perspectives, you have opened my eyes, you have helped me realize the things in life that I could hardly understand on my own. You have helped me enjoy life. You have enriched my spirt with your wisdom, youth, and humanity. With everything you've been and done for me, I am only more convinced that you have been my best friend for all these years."

I would look him straight in the eyes and tell him, "If I could only have your arms around me, I would feel good going wherever it was I was going to."

Hopefully, I would have the strength left to extend my arms to him. And we should share an embrace so powerful that it could sustain the world from all the burdens imaginable for centuries to come. And since it would be ending, I would say to him, "Because I've loved you so much for so long."