Cemetery Trees

I knew him as a boy. We grew up together. We'd play with the same friends on the same block. He reminded me of myself, we were both tender boys who were easily hurt and offended by how cruel other children could be.

His mom worked at the local grocery store making cakes in the bakery. His dad was a ghost who never seemed to be home. He invited me over once, his house was empty. He showed me a closet under the stairs. Strewn all over the cement floor of this closet were countless magazines, all with naked men inside. I'd never seen anything like that before. He picked one up and showed it to me. I immediately felt aroused, yet sick. I quickly left the house.

We stayed friends at a distance from then on, passing ways occasionally. 

When we were older he came out. I'd always known he was gay, he didn't ever have to say a word. I saw that part of him in me, and didn't quite know how to feel about it. He was brave coming out like he did, in a small town like ours. I admired him for that.

Years later we met in a bar and he bought me a shot. He was sweet, talking coyly, never too serious.

He died shortly after that, of a heart attack, on his living room floor, where his mother was on her knees trying to save him.

I attended his funeral. There were so many people there. I distanced myself near the cemetery trees. I witnessed the man who loved him walking, grief stricken with heavy steps, tears drenching his cheeks. My heart broke for him.

He was a beautiful man, one whom I remember as a boy, a boy much like me.