Dear Joe,

It was one year ago – February 26, 2008 – that you left us. The last time I talked to you on the phone, I think, was that January. From what I remember, you sounded fine – there was nothing in your words that would have told me otherwise. I asked if you still went line dancing at the country-western bar where you’d taken me on my last visit to Tampa. After watching you and the others dance, I’d told you how impressed I was. You tried to coax me onto the dance floor, but I was much too chicken.

During that call or an earlier one, you also told me that you’d gone on a couple of dates with someone, and I was thrilled for you. Because by age 38, you seemed resigned to leave romance to chance. Like me, you were usually shy to chat up strangers, at least offline. And often, you talked about your friends more than about yourself, as if they were more interesting or more important. I sometimes wondered if maybe your self-esteem suffered because of your “lazy eye” – the result of a childhood accident. To me, your uniqueness made you stronger.

So Joe, I was happy to cheer you on in romance, because you were too sweet of a guy to not be with someone. When we first met on your 2005 visit to San Diego, I thought maybe that “someone” might be me. We hiked, ice-skated, visited the zoo and swung on the Santa Monica beach swings together like two goofy, oversized kids. And I know you felt the same then, because after my first trip to Tampa a few months later, I remember that as you dropped me off at the airport to return home, your eyes filled with tears.

After those two visits, we decided to just stay friends, due to distance and other reasons. When I visited you again for Disney World Gay Days in June 2007, that friendship was put to the test. I still remember how horrible I felt after we checked into our Orlando hotel and I realized I’d left my wallet and driver’s license in Tampa. You insisted we drive back for it, but because you were exhausted from driving up, I drove back, sans license and through pouring rain while you dozed in the passenger seat. And I’ll never forget us racing through another downpour from a dance club to your car, only to forget where we’d parked. It didn’t matter though; we were already drenched and shivering, yet strangely giddy. Thankfully the sun came out for the closing pool party, putting much-needed smiles on our faces while we navigated a sea of mostly narcissistic gay men.

After that visit, we chatted on the phone each month as usual. But in February of last year, you suddenly didn’t return my calls, emails, or messages. Finally, your phone lines were disconnected. I wondered if you were laid off, because you told me you were worried about the possibility. And I wondered if you moved, because you once told me you’d thought about going to back to Virginia or D.C. But why wouldn’t you tell me? I asked myself many times what I might have done to deserve your abandonment, but couldn’t think of anything.

I wrote my final email to you last April. I told you I’d be singing with my chorus in Miami that summer at the GALA Choruses Festival, where hundreds of gay and lesbian choruses perform for each other and the public. I really wanted you to come hear us and meet lots of great people.

I finally received a response to that email after Christmas. It was from your brother. He simply wrote: “I’m sorry to tell you that Joe died on February 26, 2008.”

Dear God, Joe – do you know how awful and surreal that felt, getting that email from your own account? But I confess that I was oddly unsurprised, and I didn’t cry right away. Because I hadn’t heard from you for so long, the scenario had crossed my mind, but I’d convinced myself it was something else. I emailed your brother back to please tell me how you passed, but he hasn’t yet answered. So these past two months, I’ve lost many hours of sleep wondering how and why. You know, I still wear the Tampa T-shirt you gave me a few years ago, mostly as a nightshirt. Every time I wear it, I remember you.

I recently contacted your friends online, and one of them told me you died in your bedroom, and you likely took your own life. Joe, why didn’t you tell us about your problems?

One day, Joe, we’ll see each other again. But you’ll have to wait, my dear, because I intend to stick around here for many more years. Until then, I won’t forget you.