Power of Two

We used to lay out on my parent's driveway, holding hands, looking at the stars, wondering where we would be ten years down the road. We shared ambition and heartache, teen angst, teen love and the uncertainty of the future. We would pull my parent's speakers out by the windows, open the door to the porch to let the music seep out, and listen to hours of the Indigo Girls while contemplating our own course, our own map, laid out in the stars. We would talk and laugh for hours, drinking canned Miller Lite, he smoking cigarettes that I procured for him.

We would spend our days by the pool, in our silly red swimsuits, rotating our shifts as lifeguards to spend as much time as possible in chairs next to each other, a schedule I laid out for us as head lifeguard to ensure that we maximized as much possible time together at the pool as feasible without tipping anyone off.

He wasn't a boyfriend, he was gay, and he knew it for years, but would tell people little by little as he got just close enough to them. We would leave the pool and drive and drive, singing at the top of our lungs, in a truly joyous manner. We laughed, a lot. He had ambitions of performance and would sing like the day was setting just a little too soon, loud and full of emotion, as if he was calling the sun back for just a little while longer.

We spent countless nights curled up on my parent's couch, watching movies, and he was always welcome at our table. He sometimes lived a conflicted and emotional life, but never one that was void of love for those closest to him.

We spent three summers together. I as a boarding school misfit back home and he as an irreverent, loving, misunderstood and free soul. He brought out the wild side of me I never knew I had--I threw my first clandestine party at my parent's house while they were out of town, bought beer with a fake I.D. and ditched the remnants of those nights in a dumpster down town in the early hours of the morning.

After uncountable dinners at my parent's home, he invited me to have dinner with his mother at the close of one summer, Gazpacho from her garden vegetables in their home on the hill where I drove him home so many nights.

We weren't reckless or dangerous, we were kids, bronzed and free, exploring what that meant in Southern Vermont.

He introduced me to a friend who I cherish and love to this day, the same way I did him. To her parents and family, one that is close and loving, and that reminds me so much of my own. He moved to Hawaii, a place that he adored, and that suited him. A place to give him a freedom he'd not known in Vermont.

He always seemed to dance on the precipice of something more. He was a force to be reckoned with. He could be biting, but he was always the kindest soul. He loved fully and greatly. And he protected his friends in the same way he protected himself.

Dan Moore was lovely, kind, complex and a true friend. He forged his life as he wanted, and he was strong. We drove to countless Indigo Girls concerts together, free, happy, and singing at the top of our lungs.

He passed away this week. Too early. And I will miss him immensely.

And to my friend, always remember: We're ok, we're fine, baby I'm here to stop your crying. Chase all the ghosts from your head, I'm stronger than the monsters beneath your bed. Smarter than the tricks played on your heart, look at them together and we'll take them apart. Adding up the total of a love that true, multiply life by the power of two.

He will always be in my heart.