A look skyward this morning carried me back. In an instant, I jettisoned one freshly trimmed Scottsdale palm and a barely-detectable sliver of the moon for an unscheduled trip to my 1969 St. Louis summer crew cut and pubescent, eleven-year-old body.
When I landed in a black-and-white TV world, it was three weeks before two men walked on the moon. To gather my wits, I twirled the knobs of my transistor radio. Past the dollar bleacher seats of my Cardinals’ baseball childhood. I searched frantically up and down the dial for an empty channel in the frequency. For coverage of Dorothy’s fond farewell before she clicked her heels. For a flashpoint on Christopher Street that took us from Stonewall to somewhere over the rainbow. But it wasn’t meant to be. I left without finding them there.
Now, fifty years have passed. I’m nearly sixty two. I’m living in the Sonoran heat with a fresh summer haircut. I lead a full and open life with my husband. Together we share all the scars and joys of being gay. Every omission. Every discovery. Every hurt. Every realization. Every victory. Every monsoon. Every full moon. It’s as it should be. They are all a part of our journey.