Your Closet — Not Mine!

To honor the wishes of the dead?

Yeah, I know, I know — you’d be turning in your grave if you had one.

But dammit, Larry, I now rise from your pathetic pile of ashes to speak the truth.

You kept us smothered in the closet for 22 years.

I should say, “closets,” plural. Separate closets, separate rooms.

We never — officially — shared one. You always made a point of telling friends and family — oh so casually — that we sure lucked out finding an affordable two-bedroom apartment.

Jesus, Larry, by now we could have been 10 years legal.

Even at the beginning — it was the post-AIDS era, for Chrissake! — there was no need for secrecy. Certainly, not amongst friends.

As for family, your religion was just an excuse. Surely they would have accepted us in time, if not from the get-go. They are loving, reasonable people.

They were — are! — by rights, my family too. It sickens me to think that they never knew it.

Ah, but do you really think they never knew, Larry? After all, you never married. Never once brought a girl home, not even for show.

Your parents aren’t stupid, Larry. Even if they didn’t know about me, they had to have known about you.

How do you think I felt at your funeral, Larry, cast in my superfluous part of Just-one-of-so-so-many-friends-of-the-late-Larry-Morgan?

No speaking part for “Flat-mate Phil”—not even one line — I was just an extra in the crowd scene: Many Mourners Milling: Take One-and-Only.

I am the tragic star, uncredited; the widow, unacknowledged.

That you didn’t have a “real” widow to steal my show was a mere minor consolation; I was cheated of my rightful role, regardless.

And so, Larry, as I make my way to pay a condolence call on your mother, I am rehearsing my finale.

It’s shaping up to be Oscar-worthy.