She was that proverbial breath of fresh air into my normally blasé lifestyle whom I welcomed when we first met our freshman year of college: Gramley Hall - Second Floor.
A woman’s, who would later be one of my closest friends, parody of the school’s Alma Mater use to disgust me, “Firm are thy tits O Salem, there are no virgins here: there’s straights, there’s bi's, there’s lesbians; hell, half this campus is queer –” then I met her and realized I must be part of that ‘half’ and regardless of my strong Catholic upbringing when I would look at her cream-colored alabaster skin, hair like a fresh penny, and piercing gray eyes; I didn’t care.
Three years of passionate romance, the entire school talked about us – not for being lesbians but because we were the ideal couple, at least I was at her beck and call – so with graduation at arm’s length I thought it would be best if I just bit the bullet and asked, ‘Will you marry me?’
Deo volente, I had it all thought out: we’d fly up to Massachusetts right after graduation, get married; then return to Winston-Salem, where we both had jobs waiting, to start a new life together; after a year or so later, when we were both settled, we’d foster a child, maybe even a family group – no babies because keeping siblings together is so hard – who we might later adopt.
“Yes, you are my Nubian Goddess, I would love nothing more than to marry you.”
She wanted to be a nurse and volunteered all her free time at Forsyth Medical Center so it didn’t occur to me, I was so busy with my own internship and preparing for the rest of our lives, until it was too late the amount of time she spent there - the minister-on-call wouldn’t allow it but I’ll remain her widow until my turn arrives.