Whatever...Love Is Love by Maria Bello

and point it upwards. To God.”
    The reason he knew all this stuff wasn’t because he had read about it in books, he had lived it. One day, he explained to me how he came to do what he did, and how he decided to follow a different path. “I was head of a huge production company at the time. I have no idea why. I always hated the movie business, but I was good at it. But one day after too many years of the bullshit, I woke up and realized that I was so unhappy. So, I decided to go off to an island by myself and figure out what would make me happy.”
    â€œAnd you discovered that you like reading and sleeping the best, right?” I asked, because he had told me that these were his favorite activities many, many times.
    He laughed. “That’s right. But it took me years to figure that out. It took a long time, walking the beach every day, for me to have my breakthrough.”
    â€œWhat?” I wanted to know everything about this breakthrough, because I wanted one, too. Maybe if he told me the meaning of life, I thought, I would find out what would make me truly happy.
    â€œIt was just my normal morning walk. A beautiful, cold day. I don’t remember what I was thinking. Probably nothing. And then I just started to cry. I looked around me and realized that I was a part of the whole universe. It was like an explosion. Like an orgasm.”
    â€œHow long did it last?” I asked him, fascinated.
    â€œAbout three minutes.”
    â€œDid you ever have it again?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œSo what was the point?”
    â€œHell if I know. But I did know in that moment that I had tapped into some sort of enlightenment and only wanted to continue living in it.”
    John always could boil things down to their sweetest essence.
    Some years after we met, John was diagnosed with cancer. One of my last memories of him was his birthday before he died. Martha and I sat at his hospital bed. He hadn’t spoken for days. I brought cupcakes and a CD player that looked like an old gramophone. We sat by his side and played jazz. John had started out playing in a jazz band in Greenwich Village back in the 1950s, and he loved that music. And we danced for him. He hadn’t eaten for a month, but he opened his eyes. “Happy birthday!!” we screamed. He smiled and took a bite of the cupcake I fed him.
    I will always recall my last conversation with John. I remember squeezing his hand. When he moved, I held it tighter.
    â€œHere’s what I know about you,” I said. “You are the strongest man I’ve ever met. You left home at twelve to become a bus driver and ended up running a movie studio. You are definitely the funniest person I have ever met, the only one who told me that you would actually order me a pizza if I ever tried to kill myself. You always knew I loved pizza the most.
    â€œYou’re the only one I can really trust with all of myself. How can I tell you what you mean to me? When you came into my life years ago, I was on the verge of another suicidal depression. A depression that drove me to the place of questioning everything I was. Was I good enough? Was the life I was living enough? Enough, enough. I was always searching for more and more ways to validate myself, to show myself how much I mattered. With you it was different. I didn’t need to prove anything. You loved me for who I was and accepted me unconditionally. You never tired of my need for reassurance.
    â€œYou make me feel safe. Like no one can touch me. Like no matter what happens, there is someone who loves me. When I don’t speak to you for a day I feel edgy and just not right. Whatever guys I have been through, you’ve never left me and never judged me. What else can I say? I love you. I don’t want you to die. I couldn’t handle it and wouldn’t want to go on without you.”
    Martha called to tell me that he had died. I was numb and didn’t cry until days later.