May 31, 1.973
It seems like a long time ago that I began writing this diary, but in actual time it hasn’t been so long ago that I first turned to the questionable solace of writing to myself when things hurt too much to bear. It was only six years ago. Impossible, I think, when I look from the world of eighteen years to the world of twelve. Only six years? But then there is an enormous difference between the way a twelve-year-old boy relates to situations and the way someone of eighteen does.
Chad sleeps. He’s in the bedroom, and I’m awake at dawn, too rich with passion, too thrilled with life to waste another moment in sleep. I want to be awake to savor the memories of last night and to look forward to all the nights that are to follow.
It was raining last September when I took Chad to the airport and put him on the plane for New