61. My mother; because I know she did the best she could, and she loved to the absolute limit of her capacity, and because I am no different.
62. Judi, my friend, coworker, confessor, confidante, and would be lover (if I was straight); for coming to me with some of her most private conflicts, and trusting my advice, and for allowing me to do the same.
63. Joe V., from Germany of late, who was the perfect lover, who offered things more precious than I believed I deserved; for being intelligent, scarily perceptive, passionate, intensely conscious, huge-hearted and beautiful inside and out, and for shaking up my world.
64. Ned Martin, who was the voice of summer, a Red Sox announcer heard on my father’s AM radio on lazy afternoons and warm nights throughout my entire remembered life; for his quiet style and unpretentious class, for never making meaningless noise during games, and for conveying some of baseball’s gentle beauty by allowing significant silences seasoned only with the idle sounds of a waiting crowd. Ned Martin died July 23, 2002.
65. My uncle Joe; for killing me, thus enabling me to know life from an uncommon perspective.
66. Don W., who you may remember from the story of Billy the ‘oil-drum pilot’; for being young and innocent and scared and needy and angry and lonely and sad, and for never losing hope, despite all this.
67. I learned from Joel that most everyone is good and kind, but few are brave. Most people hide their hearts, and hide from others’ hearts. And most people never knew the astounding joy and stunning agony of loving Joel.’
–from joe:3/16/2000′,CAPTION,’journal entry’,LEFT);” onMouseout=”return nd();”>Joel L., who I fell in love with, fought with, and became so angry at that I decided I could never see him again, and who I then missed being apart from so terribly that I decided no amount of anger would ever separate me from him again; for giving me his heart and allowing me to try and fill the empty spot there, and for his pure and innocent love by which he inadvertantly saved my soul.