The creaking over my head has stopped. It has been in the background so much that most of the time I forgot it was there. Now it’s eerily silent. Once it was an occasional annoyance when I was feeling stressed and frustrated. The times when I really needed silence. Now that silence means that Richard has left the house — finally got out of his beloved rocking chair. Only this time he’s not coming back.

That chair. That’s where he would come home from work and unwind. That’s where he watched his Broncos and scream his head off when they scored. That’s where he would watch as America voted for their favorite idol for six years. That’s where he would watch people decorate other’s homes. That’s where he would watch his Elton John concerts. That’s where he would sit after he would yell for me to come see the latest music video of the bands we both loved. That was where he surveyed his kingdom — from his kinetic throne.

Richard had been in my life since around 1998. I met him when I moved into the basement apartment of the house he and Clayton shared. Richard was quiet, guarded and protective of what was his — his dogs, his friends, his rocking chair and his partner of 18 years, Clayton. But mostly his dogs. He loved Golden Retrievers and there has been one in his life as far back as I’ve known him. There are pictures everywhere of the ones in his life. Sydney and Roo were the ones with him when he quietly let go of his life.

His health problems were well known - diabetes, liver transplants, and his digestive tract — oy! I wouldn’t even go into that. Let’s just say we had to pick out shoes to match his ‘bag’. This last slip into unconsciousness wasn’t his first. He had fought back to life on other occasions. Seemingly to make sure some unfinished business was taken care of, but I always thought it was something else. I think he kept coming back to spite Clayton. No, go ahead and laugh. Clayton has said it, too. Their relationship for a few years seemed to be on the brink of imploding. Their bouts of shouting would ring through the house sometimes so intensely that I would call a friend to see if I could ride it out elsewhere. They would always make up though. They would always apologize to me as well. The strongest commonality the two had was making others in their house feel like it was their home. They were both embarrassed when that was not the case.

This time; however, was different. It’s the first I can remember where things in his life and in those he loved were going well. He had a good job even if his boss was an ass; Clayton was not only gainfully employed, but getting job offers for other places; Roo had settled into the family unit with Sydney accepting her; his financial situation had improved greatly; his mom was working to better herself and his relationship with Clayton was the best it had been in years. Everyone and everything seemed to be in a caring and loved place. There was no need to fight. He could finally relax. There was no need to worry about the pressures our society puts on us in this world anymore.

I truly believe that when he went lifeless in Clayton’s arms for those four terrible minutes on Memorial Day that he was happy and had nothing to regret. So he decided to take one last trip which was delayed by a team of paramedics, a visit to the hospital and a damnable ventilator. Now the delays are over and he is free to get away. But not to his favorite place on Earth, Australia. No, this time he booked a longer flight. It was expensive, but would be worth the 49-year payment plan. It would be a smooth ride that would take him over the land down under and beyond the horizon to places that we — the left behind — can only imagine. A trip that all of us must take sometime.

Where, you may ask. It doesn’t matter. I’ve heard the in-flight service is the best ever experienced.

G’night, mate.

This weekend I attended the Remembrance Service of Miss Markie, who a few years ago went through gender reassignment and was then know as Lilian Grace Marlowe. During the service, her sister got up and read the suicide note Lily had sent her. In the eloquently written note is mentioned one of two songs specifically requested played at the service: “Vincent” by Don McLean. Lily told her sister that if she listens to “Vincent”, she could begin to understand what Lily went through in her half century on Earth.

This morning I got out of my hurried shower when my thoughts remind me to buy the two songs. At my computer naked, I purchase and download the two songs, sync my iPod and then quickly run to finish getting ready for work. Rushing between my bedroom and the bathroom a few minutes later, I stop when I hear a familiar series of piano chords thinking out loud that it simply can’t be “American Pie” playing.

It is.

I walk to my computer slowly as everything begins to feel eerie only to walk in the living room to Don singing, “Bye-bye, Miss American Pie”. Well, goodbye to you, too, Miss Lily. Thank you for the great times in those improv classes almost a decade ago. Thank you for your kind words and support at that Monkey show last summer. Thank you for your courage in realizing your own dreams. I simply wish the rest of the world could see beyond the flashy sensationalism of the human skin.

And, yes, I remember your signature color is indeed purple. I’ll see you out on the veranda later and we can catch up.

Listening to: All Apologies - Nirvana