Each leave taking in its own setting, its own geography of impossible moment. Here, Deborah is having lunch with me in the small cafe that sits before the Hudson River promenade on 70th street, the concrete tongue built by Trump that pours out into the river.We have known and worked with each other since 1973. There is no way to say good-bye. We just perch on this corruptedly- built spit of river way to be in each other's company one more time.
In the old Catholic cemetery in the Bronx, an ancient habitat of farewells, Deb and Teddy take us to visit the grave of Mabel Hampton, but Ms Hampton soars into life in the air around us. How impossible it is to contain our human story in stone, our human lesbian story made of spirits too huge for such solidity. We tell stories as we stand of the Hampton years; all around is impermanence--this I knew as every day on this journey, I tried to take hold of time and those I loved in it and now I sit in our study in Melbourne, a late hour, La Professoressa walking the streets of Oslo where snow and cold touch her Australian cheek, Cello sleeping at my feet, his breathing a little more labored now, and I return to these images to keep them in life, to keep me in life.