When Tim and I say that we’ve been physically together since the event of his transition, we literally mean he was corporeal; embodied; physically real. We know this is asking a lot for anyone to accept, and most likely strains one’s sense of rationality. It was just so for me. It happened suddenly and vibrantly, like a silent firecracker. One moment I was typing away, oblivious to anything other than my own thoughts, and then something, a movement perhaps, caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I automatically turned my head to glance in the direction of the bed, which was just to my right and only a few feet from me.
And there was Tim—sitting on the bed, a huge grin on his face, his legs crossed at the ankles and hands calmly folded in his lap! Startled out of my wits, I screamed—who wouldn’t? Books crashed to the floor as I sprang to my feet. In the same instant that I screamed, he was gone. No *POP* or fading away—he was just suddenly not there. But his appearance was long enough to turn my world completely inside out, and set in motion an adventure I never could have conceived on my own—and one that is far from over.
Afterwards, I just sat in my chair, staring at the space on the bed where I had clearly seen someone sitting—someone I hadn’t seen since his death over two years ago. Eventually I got up and slowly wandered around, dazed but excited. What was going on? Everything looked the same. There were no ghostly sounds or strange lights, no scent of roses. Did insanity always appear so normal? I closed my eyes and could see a kind of afterimage of him—he had been wearing blue jeans and a red and blue flannel shirt. I didn’t even question if what had happened was real—I just knew it was. Sleep did not come that night, as I was stressed out from wondering if he would return, and desperately hoping that he would. But he didn’t, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something familiar was going on.
And indeed, there was.