UntitledUntil Yahoo Answers gives me one

As I laid a rose over your grave, I thought back to a different time; a better time, a time when you and I were together, with no worries or care. I thought of what we did to make someone do this to you; it was only love.



When I first found out that someone had killed you, I was furious. When I found out why... I don’t understand what was so wrong. When I saw your body... Bruises on your face and chest, the word “FAGGOT” carved into your chest. Your forehead was stitched up, from what I presume to be what killed you. And I wanted to make someone pay for what they did to you, and what they did to me. You were only 19, you didn’t deserve this.



But what I really did was run away. I picked up everything we had, and I moved to California, without even missing our small town in Texas. I barely stuck around for your funeral. In California, I went to a DeVry, graduated with a bachelor’s degree in art. When I was going there, I met a guy. He was really great, I guess. I was drunk all the time. I moved in with him, and got sober. He was good to me, real good. For a while. We went off to New Hampshire and got married, and we were happy. We adopted a little girl, named Emma. I got a job drawing for a small TV show. And for about 5 years, I was happy. That was when he got back into drinking.



I don’t want to go into detail; I know you would hate it if you knew the extent of what he did, even if you aren’t with me right now to hear it. But... He killed her. I left him alone with her for 3 days to go on a business trip, which could change the life of the TV show I did art for. When I came back, I found her small body lying broken on the floor of her bedroom. And he came after me with a knife, and I didn’t move. I was in shock when I found poor Emma, still not believing my eyes and not moving... He plunged the knife deep into my arm, on the rainbow flag tattoo you and I got before you died, and I screamed and quickly ran, locking myself in the bathroom, listening in terror as he banged on the door, begging for entry. I tried pulling out the knife, but I just couldn’t. The neighbors heard, and they called the cops. I heard sirens coming as I cried. I was still so scared.



I heard a crash, and yelling of lots of obscenities. I heard the clicking sound of a taser, a scream. I was startled by a knock at the bathroom door; I guess they heard my sobbing. “Police! Open the door!” I reluctantly complied, and the police came in.



So, an ambulance was called, I went to the hospital, and I haven’t seen that terrible man since. But when I was stabbed, I honestly thought I would bleed to death, and I thought of you for the first time in a very long time. I thought I finally was going to see you again, wherever we went when we died. The sirens broke my reverie.



When I was released from the hospital, I left California. I went to Oregon and worked as a McDonald’s cashier. I didn’t date another guy for 3 years.



I met him at work, he saw my rainbow flag tattoo with a scar running down it, and asked if I was going to the Pride Parade in Seattle. When I said no, he offered to take me. I said yes.



The Pride Parade was amazing; I wish we could have gone to one. And so was the guy. We ended up in a hotel room together when we were too tired to drive back home, but don’t worry, nothing happened. We kissed a little, and he asked about my scar. I tearfully broke down and told him everything. He was mortified, and he said only a monster could do that. He took me in, and healed everything the man before him had broken.



I took things a little slower, but again, we ended up getting married, in Massachusetts this time. And again, we decided we wanted a child. Adding a more personal touch, we got a surrogate mother to help us. 9 months later, we had a baby boy we named Spencer. I had finally quit McDonald’s, and was doing what I always wanted. I was painting for a living. And we were happy for 15 years. Then, my husband collapsed one day at the cold Oregon beach. A few months later, we found out it was lung cancer he acquired from years of cigarette smoking. Spencer was devastated, his dad was dying. But me... I was experiencing this all over again, the death of someone I loved. You were on my mind again.



A year later, my husband died, a week after Spencer came out (I don’t think we were an influence on his sexuality, but I’m probably wrong.)  A simple funeral came afterwards, and I found myself doing the same thing all over. I picked up everything, and moved again. Spencer hated me for it. I hated myself for it. This time, I found myself in Topeka, Kansas. Why I chose the home of Westboro Baptist, I’ll never know.



I was hated. I was pretty sure they were going to do the same thing they did to me and my son as what they did to you, and I was terrified. I was terrified for Spencer. He couldn’t live with both his parents dead. But I wouldn’t let them break us. We lived in Topeka for 3 years together, until Spencer moved in with his boyfriend when he turned 19, and went off to college. Exactly what we did.



I lived in Topeka for about 10 years longer, until I just couldn’t take the damn church anymore. I moved back to Texas. I lived here for 1 year, before I got the courage to come see you. And I just want you to know that I love you. I always have. I loved you then, and I still do. More than anyone. I’m 63 years old and I can’t admit that to anyone...



When I collapsed from a heart attack over your grave, I thought of you for the last time. And when I awoke in a much better place, in your arms, 19 again, free of hate, I kissed your lips again for the first time in years.