You're my rock

The sun shone faintly. Its rays merely grazed us. Our thick, autumn sweaters hardly did enough to shield us from the rampant October chill. I looked up to see the clouds. Gray, really. Obnoxious yet occasional streaks of cyan followed. Wondering what else was happening beyond my three feet of height, I looked up to my right. It was then that I got my first solid, memorable glimpse of you.

Your face was as round as the maroon colored apple you had in hand. Your wavy black hair, back when it was still purely monochrome, was in a youthful bob. Though not fitting the energy outside, as most everything was dying, it thrived in its out-of-place vibrancy. Your skin was soft but just a tad ashy. A couple years of Denver’s aridity had definitely made its mark on you. Your expression, as I would later learn, was emblematic of you: understated, almost muted. Heavy with introspection and concern, your eyes were fixed on the bumpy sidewalk that followed for another block or two. More than anything, I remember holding your hand. My four-year old fingers were sunk into your grownup palm as we walked up and down the street of Chelsea Park. The gentle, firm clasp made me feel safe from the growing darkness lurking in the tall pines. Your warmth, strength, and conviction bundled all together osmosed by that single touch. It was at that moment that I realized you weren’t just my mother’s closest confidante nor her little sister, but my rock. Your impact on me would only snowball from there.

Yearly trips to see you in the Mile High City are perhaps the sweetest memories I have from childhood. They would always usher an unrefined, glorious excitement I find rare these days, both in myself and in the world around me. Familiarity with Colorado bred not contempt, but an extensive love and appreciation that deepened and expanded with each and every visit. The child in me will forever be enchanted and more so dumbfounded by the privilege of being cradled in the Rockies, even for a week’s time. The arid, parched landscape had a tranquil isolation that allowed for the reflection that you were always so keen about. The reflection, while often internal, was often extended to conversation as well. Despite being on the rounder side, those very interactions would truly give shape to the person I am today.

In those talks, you’d ask me about my life and what was happening, the good and the bad. Incessant but patient probing for endless details about each event was a critical element of our conversations. Before asking those questions, you would often mirror what I would say to ensure that we were on the same page. I’d grow to learn that what you were doing was known as active listening in AP Psychology in my junior year of high school. What was introduced as a highly advanced skill in class was presented by you, and should be, a common trait. It was indicative of engagement. More than anything, care. You and your care would end up saving me at the darkest of times, when I was stuck in the trenches.

From the time I was six, I knew I liked girls and boys. If my family knew there was anything that came after the word “girls'', I would have my behind handed over to them. From how some attractive queer figures were “a waste of a man” to how bisexuality was made up by the greedy and indecisive, their constant berating of queer people seemed to never end. It wasn’t an environment conducive for cultivating a strong sense of personal worth. The hostility led me to further my hedonistic relationship with food, which worsened my health in all facets. I felt like crying every single day. Enshrouded by the thick, torturous veil of self-depreciation weighing on me, I couldn’t see how things could improve. Yet, just like that bitter day in the Fall of 2007, I suddenly saw the sun, softly shining her light on me. She was you.

You were and are virtually the only adult who I ever came out to. You made it so easy. The way you acted towards me was so inexplicably effortless that I know you didn’t even try. Your solemn but warm eyes and closed yet kind smile manifested into words that indulged me in comfort. Not the comfort that lulls wrongdoers into a delusion that enables their bad behavior, but the kind that a blankie gives a child, or music of youth gives an old person. It’s the tender, soft, ever-so-slightly-pain-numbing love that every human not only desires, but truly deserves. "Beta, I want you to be happy. That’s all. Be good and do good. Your sexual preference does not change my love for you. You are special and will always be."

On that snowy winter night, you gave me courage, wisdom, and hope. Courage to be me without hesitating about anything, whether it’s the dark hiding in the trees, other people’s commentary, and everything else in between. Wisdom to have that courage, because no matter what, the me that I am is and will always be, just fine. Lastly, you imparted hope in me. Not that my family would accept me or assuage their biting attitudes, but that one day, I could be there for someone as you’ve been for me. I can only aspire to be that pillar of support for someone, to actually hear them when their world is seemingly deaf. Thank you for being my mentor. Thank you for inspiring me to be a happier, healthier, and a more sure version of myself. Most of all, thank you for holding my hand all those years ago on that autumn midday walk. It was at that moment that I knew your role in my life would be pivotal. I love you so much, all the way from Chelsea Park to the Rocky Mountains. You’re my rock, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.