Charlene

Chuck was raised like the rest of us. But he didn’t turn out like the rest of us. We were neighbors. His father was a banker; his mother a homemaker. Back then, she was just like Joan Cleaver-- cleaning the house and cooking in a dress and pearls, always smiling. But when Chuck decided he also liked wearing dresses and pearls, things changed. See, Chuck idolized his mom, and did everything she did. His father refused to have a queer son. Maybe if he’d been around more, things would have turned out different. His mom couldn’t handle Chuck alone so she found an opiate escape. The Destroyer of Grief the ancients called it. Seems to me like it caused more grief than it ever destroyed. There’s certainly a lot of grief today. Enough to bring us all back here. I haven’t been home in 15 years. I feel guilty that it took something so tragic and ugly to bring me back. Chuck and I both left home at eighteen and never looked back. The city stole us. For me it was the money; for him, the acceptance, the like-minded. Chuck followed in his mother’s footsteps alright. He became her. The pearls and heels. The powder and pills. I would see him occasionally in the city and we’d have lunch, catch up, and talk about the good ol’ days. He never spoke of his parents, though. He went by Charlene then. I got used to it, that’s why it’s so weird to see him lying here today in a men’s suit and short hair. I assume his father thought that if he was buried as a man, he would be remembered as a man. He was dead and they were killing him all over again. Chuck died; Charlene was murdered.