It was a dusty late week afternoon outside of Center Camp. I had finished up my barista shift and was headed out to the playa when a honky tonk came cruising by playing Johnny Cash. Getting on board would set my course for the next decades of my life, but there was no way to know that, then. I had travelled to Burning Man from Chicago with a fellow Whole Foods employee/friend. I had just earned my graduate degree, and after four years away from the playa, came there seeking.

Tall and lanky, with short cropped blonde hair, I ended up in a conversation with Troy, who had come down to Burning Man from Seattle with his friend Rob in an RV. They were queer, I was identifying as a lesbian at the time. Some how on the roving honky tonk, it didn’t take long to earn a dinner invite - salmon on the menu, with a side of LSD. Rob was a photographer, and so while coming up after dinner, he flipped through the pictures from their trip from Seattle and one stood out: a plum tree with a ripe plum, and a spider. “You grow fruit in your yard?”

Returning to Chicago, it didn’t take long for me to announce to my friends that I was moving to Seattle. In less than two months I’d clear out of my apartment, a few suitcases in tow and boxes shipped, headed on a train to Seattle with no job, only a temporary sleeping arrangement, and a hope that when the student loans came due that I wouldn’t mind being poor in a new place. Jon and I were in contact by LiveJournal, as friends and despite some inkling of flirtation, nothing else on my mind.

When I called Troy, just a few days after arrival, and after a couple nights at Jon’s, I told him about the whirlwind, a little sheepishly, since the word lesbian has carried so much weight of exclusivity. Certainly no self-proclaimed lesbian would shack up with a man. I had no reason to fear though, as he laughed when I was finished recapping the story, “You really are a lesbian.”

Cemeteries are a dying business.

My guide and salesperson for the historic Lake View Cemetery in Seattle told that joke after our initial greeting, with the true tone of ha-ha only serious. Craig was jovial, giant and older, pale and grey haired, his hands rough and full of knots as if he held the undertaker’s spade himself. He drove me around in a golf cart to the “sneaky spots” with water views more in my price range, unceremoniously clipping sides of monuments, running over stones set into the ground, pointing out the luminaries that make up Seattle’s street grid, as well as Bruce Lee, and his son Brandon Lee.

During Jon’s last days in the hospital, he said “It’s time to see about that bench.” Jon and I watched Lodge 49 at least five times through during the last six years of his life, the first episode seen from his bed in the parlor after his initial diagnosis and back surgery. Larry Loomis, the Sovereign Protector of Lynx Lodge 49, found he had a bench prematurely purchased for him in the municipal golf course he frequented after some time in the hospital. When our friend Alex was dying of cancer in 2010, we had followed his blog on his preparations, including getting a bench for his family as a place to be remembered. Jon always appreciated that. It took me til this week to make this appointment with Craig.

Jon had specifically requested Lake View Cemetery, with view of the water. Next door is Volunteer Park, a classic Olmstead park with a reservoir, conservatory, museum, and a gay cruising spot because Volunteer Park is in Capitol Hill, the historic gay neighborhood. For a bench, I loved the idea of the quiet, humorous simplicity of having a bench for Jon in view of the cruising area. He would have loved that. Unfortunately, Seattle Parks and Recreation no longer does memorial benches, so back to the original plan, which at best will net a bench probably within a year.

I’ll have to go back to select the spot, then the monument itself. It will be a cremation plot, and though Jon wasn’t cremated, we can put his compost in the urn. There will also be space for another in the plot, which I don’t like to think about, but at least with composting it could be that part of my atoms end up there, too.

I had my first night on my new mattress. I’m slowly going through the steps of refreshing my bedroom to make it selfishly suitable for me, but the phases have been long and the biggest steps hopefully coming up in just a few weeks. The mattress I replaced had been purchased during the pandemic, specifically to address Jon’s needs but also to tackle some of my own chronic pain issues. In the end it suited him well, but not me, and so for months I’ve had increasing aches that only had a respite after staying in a friend’s guest room when I was in NYC a few months ago. Hating to be the “can you tell me what mattress I was sleeping on” kind of person, I took myself down to what I’d describe as an “internet mattress showroom” with a pain flare in hip to see if I could find my bed.

Next week I have painters coming by to give me an estimate for changing my yellow walls to a pinot noir. A friend nearby has offered to come and help me sort through Jon’s things - give away the clothes we don’t need (underwear, socks, plain shirts) and keep the things we do (band t-shirts, fancy and loud button downs, cashmere sweaters). My hope is that once that’s done it will help me continue to shed some of this grief, because Jon doesn’t live here anymore.