Astronomy, and the speed of light, and the expansion of the universe, and the thought of 186,000 miles a second, and a light-year and a googol (10¹⁰⁰), or any astronomical figure or phenomenon, always filled me with awe; but this day, my class did not interest or inspire me as it always had before. It was as if I had been struck by a bolt of lightning, as my brain seemed to scramble with the thought of Brooke.

           The immediacy of Brooke’s calls, and the longing in her voice made me wonder if I had been rash in telling her that I loved her, that morning she drove-off after the night we met. Perhaps it was more that I was grateful to her for rescuing me from a dreadful situation, while at the same time, enabling me to retaliate with my dignity intact. Notwithstanding that, I was complimented by the intensity of Brooke’s long-distance pursuit in the days and weeks that followed. She sent me numerous notes and letters that were funny, metaphorical, philosophical, and ordinary; some of which revealed her insecurity, frustration, and lust. Vicariously, Brooke took me to beaches in Rhode Island, Connecticut, and Massachusetts; and likewise, dancing at clubs in Bridgeport, New Haven, New York City, and Provincetown. After the U.S. Open at Flushing Meadows, she called me from Grand Central Terminal to tell me about the shapely and muscular legs that she saw, and “wanted to lick all over!”

           Brooke’s virtual presence freed me from the memory of past heartaches. She was a vitalizer in my seemingly humdrum life and the reason for my newly-acquired animation. Her seduction was sedulous and masterful, even if the veracity of what she professed was unfledged. It wasn’t long before I was on a plane to see her. We had a layover in Chicago, and a most-turbulent takeoff and flight from there; my description of it would be a combination of, being on a roller coaster, and riding a recalcitrant horse galloping away with you, and a sail on a rough sea, causing the resonance of sheer terror. The pilots, with decades of experience among them, told us when it was over, that it was the most-turbulent they had ever experienced.

           On the bus ride to Stamford, I peered-out the window into the darkness, thankful to be alive. The small and empty glass-walled bus station was like a lighted showcase, where I was on display long enough so that when Brooke came through the door and threw her arms around my neck, I was not only overly excited, but relieved to see her.

           We went directly to the house-office of her architect father where she lived in the attic-suite on the third floor. After talking, and bathing in bubbles, and listening to music, and playing around, Brooke fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. I daydreamed, and then drifted into a dream, about a room full of 19th-century architects working assiduously at their drawing tables, yet dressed in modern raiment. The one in the image and likeness of Brad Pitt, marched the aisle and shouted at one of his ostensible protégés, “Bring it alive man, bring it alive!” It was anachronistic and surrealistic, the wonderful way dreams are.

           The sound of Brooke’s hushed and panicky voice saying, “Get up, get up!,” awakened me abruptly from my dreamy state. Apparently, her father had decided to stop-by before leaving town. I leapt-up with an adrenalin-rush leap. We dressed hurriedly. Brooke had a plan that involved me making a mad dash out the back and across the yard, while she would distract her father and then appear to leave alone in her car. I felt like I was leaving the scene of a crime, and I too wondered if the neighbors had seen this scenario before. Brooke picked me up on the drive behind the house, and in her get-away car, we fled into a fully-augmented-New England-fall.

           The abundant and frosted foliage, colored the region into a category more spectacular than I had ever seen. The trees were like trellises over the streets, and dispersed the sunlight that highlighted the spectrum of the leaves. We drove a scenic countryside route, quaint with Connecticut quail perched on white painted fences and apple orchards lush with fruit on the vine. From Trumbull to Mystic, to New London, and Newport, Rhode Island, it twas the season of autumn and love.

           The next morning, we caught the train to the City. A ceiling of gray stratus clouds enhanced the colorful brilliance of the terrain. When we stepped-off the train at Grand Central Terminal, the petroleum-tainted air was suffocating to the extent that I almost panicked. Once we footed daylight and fresh air, I felt the excitement and joy of being in New York.

           In the Museum of Natural History, we spent hours. Brooke had to coax me out of my favorite exhibit, that of minerals and precious stones. At the public library, I was spellbound by historical black-and-white photographs of New York City taken by Alfred Stieglitz. In Central park it began to drizzle; the moisture enhanced the gradation of hues, and a balmy breeze hastened the potpourri of October. We sought-out sites where we could kiss in private. Although I had heretofore felt like the beneficiary of Brooke’s incessant need for oral gratification, kissing her in this setting was more of a turn-on than ever. Sensually and emotionally, it was torture to leave.

           On the train, we sat in the back row of seats. Brooke sucked her thumb and looked at me like she always seemed to do when we were together in a car—a moving one, that is. In the clamminess of our clothes, we were two huddled masses leaving the New York Harbor.

           The bath water ran and the tea pot whistled as we readied our bodies for what was ahead. It was exciting to think about being in the town of Yale University, where so many famous and talented people have tread.

           We arrived a little late, but it was not for the reason that we got lost, thankfully!; otherwise, the ambiance of New Haven, would not have been able to cast such a spell on me. The architecture set the tone with brownstones in rows along the street along the way; like repetition in art, they were pleasing to the senses, and stately in their similarities with broad steps that appeared to reach-out like arms in welcome. We parked alongside a “green,” next to our destination, around the corner from Court Street. My friend had just moved into a two-story townhouse on a one-block-one-way-brick-street with no parking allowed. The street was lined with four-story buildings, and lamps lighted the darkness and softened the city turf.

           Dinner was a short distraction from one another, and it was good to reconnect with my old friend. It was very nice and fun, but we were glad to get back home; once there, we had a conversation that I had had before with a number of like-minded individuals. It was as follows:

Brooke: Honey, why do gay girls and others always say, I’m a lesbian or she’s a lesbian?

Sapphy: I know, it’s redundant. Couldn’t they just say I’m gay or she’s gay.

Brooke: Exactly! I hate the word lesbian.

Sapphy: So do I. What I want to know is, how come gay guys get gay, and we’re stuck with lesbian? How did that happen?

Brooke: I don’t know, but it sounds like loser or loner.

Sapphy: You know, sapphic means “of or pertaining to lesbianism.”

Brooke: It would be a lot better than lesbian (said with disdain), but how would you feel about having a word that would be like a scarlet letter attached to your name?

Sapphy: It would be worth it if it superseded lesbian.

Brooke: Let’s think. What else is there?

Sapphy: You know how sometimes things can be right in front of your face and you just don’t see them?

Brooke: Yeah, like this lesbian curse.

After we got done laughing:

Sapphy: How about gayelle?

Brooke: Yeahhh. I like it. The gay-gayelle community. The GGBT-community. It works!

Sapphy: It could be used as an adjective, an adverb, or a noun, so that it can’t be used redundantly.

Brooke: It’s perfect!

           We were merciless with our consternation of the word lesbian and we continued to make-fun of it by altering its pronunciation by placing the accent on the wrong syllable, and by saying less instead of les, so the outcome was less-bee-un. I suggested that we start a movement, a campaign to rid the world of the vile and old-fashioned “lesbian,” and Brooke did an imitation of Scarlet in Gone With the Wind, “Maybe tomorrow.” We giggled and got into bed. By the time we were ready to sleep, we had put together our slogan, “Gayelle is hip and sapphic-chic!”

           Informed by the New Yorker, we planned to go to a gallery in the SoHo to see photographs of icebergs taken off the coast of Greenland. In the morning, we saw the essence of the floating “magical beauties” in a dazzling surprise—an early snowfall! Large white snowflakes filled the air, and en masse, the gallery. We were hypnotized by their magnificent shapes and forms; they looked so diaphanous and, at the same time, daunting. I bought two, and when Brooke wasn’t around, I had her favorite sent to her, for her upcoming birthday.

           Our brief state of felicity was negated by having to think about catching a plane. Brooke begged me to stay another day and I finally relented and blew-off classes the following day. Our solution was like taking a drug to relieve pain and misery—it worked for awhile, and awhile only. As departure time neared once again, there were feelings of withdrawal from just thinking about leaving. If it was not for that I made reservations to return over the Veteran’s Day-holiday-weekend, and for that Brooke had made plans to come out to have Thanksgiving weekend at Tab’s place in Lafayette with me, it would have been much more difficult than it already was.

           Brooke drove me to J.F.K. This time, there was no spectacular lightning show or life-threatening turbulence to distract me from thinking about Brooke. I wrapped-up in a blanket and looked-out the window and recalled the night I met Brooke in Provincetown; I remembered the comfort, the freedom, and the special euphoria that I associated with being with her.

           Meanwhile, we celebrated Brooke’s birthday in various ways long-distance. (Ha!—if you know what I mean.) Brooke loved the iceberg picture, which I expected, since it was her favorite. For weeks when I looked at mine, I could recapture the wonderful feeling I had that weekend in Connecticut and those special days in New York—it was some consolation, that was ill-fated to be forevermore. A week after Brooke’s birthday, and a week before mine, Brooke was killed in a car accident. As planned, I went back East, and stayed with my friend on Court Street. Brooke’s best-friend came over, and presented me with some of Brooke’s ashes, and her iceberg picture, that she said Brooke would want me to have. I was besieged by despair, a despair so deep, I had never experienced. No one, or anything could relieve my gut-wrenching sorrow.

           For months, the white diaphanous icebergs were clouded by my tears; they had come to symbolize a loss so painful, I didn’t want to endure. Now, I not only grieved Brooke’s death, but my own. After awhile longer, I understood why Socrates recommended that we mourn our own deaths every day; so that, we live our lives mindful of the imminence of that moment.

Before I could once again, look at our icebergs and feel joy in living, it was a very long time; and that progress would not have been possible, had we not conceived gayelle on that glorious day we walked in Central Park and dined in New Haven. Our idea, sort-of evolved into a gay-feminist-movement to replace the gay L-word with my invention—gayelle. Slowly and methodically, I plotted a strategy and course of action, and in so doing, I kept Brooke’s spirit alive, and mine as well. Over time, the campaign was a success, in that it helped to remedy what was once an intractable heartache.

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