Friends at a Crossroads
A year ago, my friend and I had a kerfuffle. She told me our friendship was at a crossroads. “Something’s gotta change,” she insisted. I was stunned. I told her I loved her, that I’d always be there for her. For 20 years, we’d bared our souls. But she indicated she’d been unhappy for a spell. I didn’t apologize, didn’t realize then that I might have been a selfish friend. One phone conversation and it was over. We still run into each other on our local Alabama greenway. We smile hello and keep walking in separate directions. — Karen Petersen
To Ring or Not to Ring
I met Tine at a dinner party in Denmark and was stunned by the depths of her sorrow and the dark humor she leveled at it. She was a weaver. The next day I stood outside her workshop, deciding whether to ring the bell. She was married; I had a girlfriend. She lived in Copenhagen, I in California. I stood there for 15 minutes, and then left. Five years passed. We were both single when I returned to Copenhagen. This time I rang the bell. Thirty-four years later, I’m still here. In a lifetime of bad choices, two good ones. — Ken Glantz
In the Background, Dad Has My Back
I came out to my mom at 24, drunk and crying after a night with friends who already knew I was gay. I asked her not to tell my father. The next morning I awoke, hung over, to my dad rubbing my back. “Bud, that’s not the sort of thing you keep from your parents,” he said. “We’ll love you no matter what.” My mom, a vocal ally, outwardly carried the flag for the rest of her life. My dad offers equal, though quieter, support. I smile seeing him in the background of photos at my hometown’s Pride parades. — Corey Gerard Lambert
I Saw It as a Sign
I was freshly dumped, and was losing my perfect vision. I made an eye appointment for the following week. The receptionist handed me a card, with the optometrist’s name, that I placed on my fridge. That night, while I was at a bar drowning my sorrows, a tall, dark, handsome man introduced himself. I complimented his glasses. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m an optometrist.” His four-letter name was of Ghanaian descent. Arriving home, I stood at my fridge. Were my eyes playing tricks? It was the same optometrist! We began dating, and I could suddenly see my future clearly. — Jenny Mercurio
