At a state tax commission meeting in Pittsburgh, Joe stood out among the tax nerds. Tall and lithe with wavy locks that fell across his forehead, he resembled Robert F. Kennedy. His Brooklyn lilt was a symphony to my ears. At an Italian restaurant in South Philly, he mesmerized me. The mussels jumped out of the broth and kissed my cheek. I was captivated by stories about his life, family, and work at the State Capitol. A runner with outsized charm, he wrote plays, spoke in metaphors, and served politicians. While Barbra Streisand sang classical, he served me dinner. He claimed he made the braciole from scratch; later he confessed it came from an Italian grocery. 

He was a flirt, and I was jealous of his attention to other women. He charmed my grandmother who has dementia. Then, he wrote a play about her and implied we neglected her. I felt like an intruder in his fantasies competing with the ghost of his previous girlfriend who left him with memories of lust. On Valentine’s Day, he gave me a poem about her. I should have quit him then. Forces brought us together, then apart. Our bond was fueled by alcohol. Drunk nights led to words being flung at each other’s faces like darts. I’d throw him out of my place. I couldn’t throw him out of my mind. 

Full of fear and duty, he was motivated by guilt, a Catholic mother and union father. He was consumed with grief from the murder of his gay brother, a Philadelphia policeman. Also contributing to his remorse was a disabled child who left him early and led to a marriage that wasn’t meant to be. He tried to fix me and my perfectionism. He had a way with words with too many flowers, but none for me. He told me I was one good woman, a name later given to his wife’s coffee business. 

He went to Ireland and found sobriety. When he returned, he made amends and took responsibility for the failures in our relationship with which I readily concurred. I couldn’t imagine dating without alcohol. He told me that I might be an adult child of an alcoholic. I sought help from a therapist who suggested the same and later advised that I rid my body of drugs and alcohol.  

Skeptical and in denial, I asked for a second opinion. The drug and alcohol counselor recommended rehab. I thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Joe said it would be all right. While I was in rehab, Joe asked out my girlfriend. When I left rehab, Joe took me under his wing. We went to meetings and movies. I told him that my sponsor did not approve, so he suggested that we wait a year. My sponsor cautioned that waiting a year was not living one day at a time. 

Yet, after a year, we went out a few times and returned to the crazy mess without the alcohol. I was still sick and obsessed. The last time he asked me out I said I couldn’t see him without couples counseling, to which he agreed. I made the appointment, then he back pedaled. I told him I would be there with or without him. He showed up. I dumped 12 years of grievances, which was too heavy a load for anyone. He followed up with a letter saying that I needed more than he could give. 

The counselor told me to resolve my father issues. Seven years later it was finally my turn to make amends and own my contribution to the dysfunction in the relationship. I was freed from the obsession. I no longer longed for him. The war was over. No more dates. No more mess. No more stickiness. Just friends connected by a war. We both found true loves to whom we were married 20 years. We were happy for each other.

I heard he had the virus and was on a respirator. My world stopped. Memories, good and bad, flooded my heart and mind. He was sedated in the ICU. I could not imagine the pain and terror his wife experienced, unable to touch or hold him, as he died in the Spring of 2020.