It's been three months since my last confession. 

I think about him every day. Sometimes it's when I'm dancing with Dee or when Melissa texts me and says she's cooking onions and Mr. Angleton is telling her to "Leave em alone, leave em alone, leave em alone." And she does. Melissa leaves them alone, for a second, and then she forgets. 

Doug never turned down a good meal or an invitation to go dancing. Sometimes we would eat before showing off our latest spins and twirls but most of the time the eating came after the dance. Late nights at the French Roast—open 24 hrs. We would get there around 3 am and sit at our favorite table. We'd order breakfast. I'd get a coffee and a side of swerve. Then we'd shuffle a well worn deck and settle in for a long match of Cho Dai Di, which means "The Big Two" in Cantonese, or in street vernacular—"Crack." Damn. That shit was hard to put down. And we were both fierce competitors. Thankfully we kept the fire contained with thick slices of french toast, eggs any style, a pile a home fries, a side of bacon—plus the links. Have mercy. I haven't played Dai Di since the summer of 2015 which is when Doug moved back to Tucson. But some things you never forget. It might take me a hand or two to get back into tournament shape, but for now, I'm satisfied with the memory—of spanking his candy ass! Just kidding. We were well matched and we would graciously pass the crown back-and-forth. I mean, eventually. We'd mope around a bit at first, and our laughter would feel a bit insincere and forced. And then there was the awkward silence as we sopped up the last drips of maple syrup. "Oh look, the sun is coming up," I'd say. Doug would slowly turn his head towards the window and we would sit quietly while meditating on the passing traffic. And then the words, "Gosh Wig, I really love dancing with you." I would smile and peek underneath the café table. Doug prided himself on never wearing the same two socks. We were born 12 days apart. Sagittarius. So yeah, when I say I'm satisfied with the memory, how does that play out exactly? I'd like to break it down.

"So how are you doing?" which is what I'm asked. It's a fair question and one that I might ask someone else who just lost a friend. I guess I'm doing ok. The first time I grieved was when my mom passed in 1997. I've come to realize that grieving is pretty much forever. And now I have Doug. All our lives we stack feelings. That energy of competition that I felt with Mr. Angleton when we were living the dream in NYC was playful—but it was also full of machismo. I grew up surrounded by the tough guy. That mentality became a part of me. That's what grieving 2.0 is all about. It's a mirror that's pointed directly at my inner compassion and it's whispering, "Be kind now." The new grieving is poetic—if you lose a loved one, it's a sign to reflect and let go of something you no longer need. So today I say goodbye to my inner macho man. There are future generations of tough guys walking the streets, but there is one less today. Me. I'm officially a flower child. And so was Doug. Memories of his camaraderie are not only satisfying, but they are essential to the preservation of spirit. I could have been kinder to Mr. Angleton. The best I can do now is to be kind to his memory. This is a life mantra learned from living—and grieving. Be kind now.

I will start with a gentle meditation.

I tell Dee that I love her very much. I also tell her that I am happy and sincerely grateful for my journey. Lastly, I tell her that I love the life we*** have lived—together. Then I kiss her on the forehead and we prepare our dinner. And if there is enough time, we'll dance. 

So yeah, that's how it plays out.

*** Everybody & everything

⌘