from bed, stagger into my robe, and head to the kitchen to start coffee.
While coffee brews, I turn on the kitchen TV to watch Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. For three years I co-hosted HBC’s parade
show and it was always freezing cold, but it was also good for me as it kept my mind off the day. I don’t like having time
on my hands on this day.
I was worried when they didn’t ask me to host the show this year. I kept waiting for them to ask, but they didn’t. In the
end I phoned Max and had him find out what was going on, and it turned out HBC decided to drop their parade coverage. I was
relieved. I know it’s spiteful, but better they drop the coverage than ask Shelby to host.
Dressing for today’s Thanksgiving dinner at Christie’s should be easy. It’s a simple family dinner, but I struggle with what
to wear, eventually settling on a brown Michael Kors blouse and pants and a turquoise, coral, and silver necklace; but then
I struggle to get motivated to do my hair and makeup. I’m getting sad despite myself. I’m thinking of Keith even though I
vowed not to.
I’m feeling brittle as I drive down the canyon toward the freeway entrance. There’s no traffic and the sun is hazy and my
eyes burn. Seven years without Keith. Several days without a call from Trevor. Why am I seeing him? Clinging to this long-distance
relationship? It doesn’t work, it’ll never work, but God, it’s so much better than being alone.
I hate being alone.
I hate dating even more.
There’s no traffic as I merge onto the freeway. Everyone’s already somewhere preparing to eat turkey. This is the first year
in five years I’ve had a proper Thanksgiving as I usually host specials or attend parades around the country.
To keep from thinking, I drive with the stereo blasting, the songs from the CD player on shuffle, and it’s a hodgepodge of
Aretha, Coldplay, Snow Patrol, and the original cast album from
Rent
. It takes only one song, the song “Without You” from
Rent,
to bring me to my knees.
“Without You.”
I reach out to push skip but can’t make myself. My song. How many times did I play this after Keith died? How many times did
I cry trying to understand how life can just go on without him?
I lower my window and let the wind rush through the car. And then the song comes to an end and I hit repeat.
I drive crying. I drive letting the music unbury the grief, letting the music dust off my love.
This album is my Keith album. This is the one that reaches into my chest and rips my heart out. I shouldn’t be playing it
today, not now, not on my way for turkey and cranberries. But in a way I’m glad to be here, in this place, in this deep, aching
grief where it’s real and honest and true. Where I am real and honest and true. So much in my life isn’t real, or true.
But love and loss are.
And Keith was.
Although Keith would be disgusted that I call
Rent
my Keith album.
I crack a small, watery smile.
We saw the show together in New York in September, a month before his final trip to Afghanistan. He hated it. I loved it.
Loved it.
I was on my feet during the curtain call, applauding like mad, and Keith, my Mr. Nonemotional, looked at me as though I were
an alien, which made me laugh, and I have never been so full of emotions as I was that night. I was laughing and crying, singing,
clapping, dancing, and I remember thinking, This is what life is. Messy and huge and brutal and beautiful.
Keith died seven weeks later.
I stop at a McDonald’s ten minutes from Christie’s and go inside to repair my makeup. My eyes are still pink despite the new
mascara and eyeliner. And looking into my reflection in the McDonald’s ladies’ room, I still see Keith in my eyes.
The bathroom door opens and a little girl runs in. I turn from the mirror and smile. I will only ever show the world my happy
face.
I arrive at Christie and Simon’s just after two. One of the garage bays is open and
While coffee brews, I turn on the kitchen TV to watch Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. For three years I co-hosted HBC’s parade
show and it was always freezing cold, but it was also good for me as it kept my mind off the day. I don’t like having time
on my hands on this day.
I was worried when they didn’t ask me to host the show this year. I kept waiting for them to ask, but they didn’t. In the
end I phoned Max and had him find out what was going on, and it turned out HBC decided to drop their parade coverage. I was
relieved. I know it’s spiteful, but better they drop the coverage than ask Shelby to host.
Dressing for today’s Thanksgiving dinner at Christie’s should be easy. It’s a simple family dinner, but I struggle with what
to wear, eventually settling on a brown Michael Kors blouse and pants and a turquoise, coral, and silver necklace; but then
I struggle to get motivated to do my hair and makeup. I’m getting sad despite myself. I’m thinking of Keith even though I
vowed not to.
I’m feeling brittle as I drive down the canyon toward the freeway entrance. There’s no traffic and the sun is hazy and my
eyes burn. Seven years without Keith. Several days without a call from Trevor. Why am I seeing him? Clinging to this long-distance
relationship? It doesn’t work, it’ll never work, but God, it’s so much better than being alone.
I hate being alone.
I hate dating even more.
There’s no traffic as I merge onto the freeway. Everyone’s already somewhere preparing to eat turkey. This is the first year
in five years I’ve had a proper Thanksgiving as I usually host specials or attend parades around the country.
To keep from thinking, I drive with the stereo blasting, the songs from the CD player on shuffle, and it’s a hodgepodge of
Aretha, Coldplay, Snow Patrol, and the original cast album from
Rent
. It takes only one song, the song “Without You” from
Rent,
to bring me to my knees.
“Without You.”
I reach out to push skip but can’t make myself. My song. How many times did I play this after Keith died? How many times did
I cry trying to understand how life can just go on without him?
I lower my window and let the wind rush through the car. And then the song comes to an end and I hit repeat.
I drive crying. I drive letting the music unbury the grief, letting the music dust off my love.
This album is my Keith album. This is the one that reaches into my chest and rips my heart out. I shouldn’t be playing it
today, not now, not on my way for turkey and cranberries. But in a way I’m glad to be here, in this place, in this deep, aching
grief where it’s real and honest and true. Where I am real and honest and true. So much in my life isn’t real, or true.
But love and loss are.
And Keith was.
Although Keith would be disgusted that I call
Rent
my Keith album.
I crack a small, watery smile.
We saw the show together in New York in September, a month before his final trip to Afghanistan. He hated it. I loved it.
Loved it.
I was on my feet during the curtain call, applauding like mad, and Keith, my Mr. Nonemotional, looked at me as though I were
an alien, which made me laugh, and I have never been so full of emotions as I was that night. I was laughing and crying, singing,
clapping, dancing, and I remember thinking, This is what life is. Messy and huge and brutal and beautiful.
Keith died seven weeks later.
I stop at a McDonald’s ten minutes from Christie’s and go inside to repair my makeup. My eyes are still pink despite the new
mascara and eyeliner. And looking into my reflection in the McDonald’s ladies’ room, I still see Keith in my eyes.
The bathroom door opens and a little girl runs in. I turn from the mirror and smile. I will only ever show the world my happy
face.
I arrive at Christie and Simon’s just after two. One of the garage bays is open and
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