Jonathan's POZ Blog

I drag Benjamin out of his silent sleep, and kiss his face. He is almost bald, the cancer having taken his fur and his finery. His skin is thin, and tender, and my touch is not necessarily gentle, considering. But he immediately puts his pointed nose and inquisitive eyes towards my face, looking for kisses, for reassurance. Looking for promises I cannot ever, ever, deliver. But I deliver them anyway, in the voice of a betraying lover. You will be okay, I promise him. You will never be too sick or too tired. There will never be a time when I have to make a terrible, final choice for you.

He plays for fifteen minutes at a time, then needs to go sleep for a spell. He explores his familiar world in my apartment, then needs to put himself back into his cage, into the private comfort of his hammock. He desires to see the world, if only to assure him that it exists, and that it needs him to explore it again. His need for wrestling, for chasing imaginary objects, to acquire treasures, seems to have diminished to nothing. What he needs now is, simply, to be reminded that there is a world that he has helped to shape, and in which he remains relevant. He explores this world, follows the tubes, finds and counts his treasures, and then goes home to sleep.

I am sad in his stead, I think. I see an aged, increasingly feeble creature who only wants, only ever wanted, to matter. I see him circle his world, and find comfort in that brief circumvention. I see his eyes, bright still, but not as bright as before, seeking me out for comfort, to carry him home, to kiss his muzzle.

I see my own past, and my own future. I see that instinctive need to belong, to matter, for our navel-gazing pedantry to have meant something in the grander scheme of things. I see the sweet, sad need to be loved. And I cry sometimes when I give my smart, brave pet the very thing I feel myself denied… the moment of knowing, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he is loved and needed and treasured above all others in this mundane world. That his treasures (hidden well, behind the oppressive Futon) and his thievery (also hidden, near the blinds against the windows) are secondary things. That the thing which makes him special is the face, my face, which wakes him from sleep and kisses his wet nose.

I am afraid sometimes that my own life is reduced to that. That my own face will stand upturned to am invisible cage, waiting for that most special kiss, that most warm breath, that most important gaze.

I do not get lonely. I enjoy my alone-ness. But some moments. This moment. I do feel the absence of love like a discordant riff in the universe. And I wonder if it’s not, if I am not, simply too late. Night is nearly done. Dawn approaches.

And I do not know what to do.

So I kiss my pet, my friend, my lonely soul. I feel his warmth against my face. And I know what I represent to his weak soul. I feel that I am enough for him. Would that he were enough for me.

This has nothing to do with... and everything to do with HIV.

Just saying.