This essay was written for a writing class at The New School. It is inspired by Harry Mathew’s The Orchard, which is great. I’ve made some small edits to preserve privacy.

• I remember the first time I met Hansel at the trans march. They were probably in drag. I was with my ex, and Jerry said hi to us. I hadn’t met either of them before.
• I don’t remember when I next saw Hansel. It was probably a couple months or more after, when I became involved at Scenic Routes.
• I remember the joy on Hansel’s face when they test rode their Rivendell Platypus for the first time. They floated down the block of Balboa Street between 6th and 7th Avenues, so confident and upright and proud.
• I’ve been told that Hansel talked about adopting me. Whenever I talked about the man I called my father they wished they could just rescue me.
• I remember riding across the Golden Gate Bridge with Hansel for the first time. They had never made it across on foot or bike. The view of the water hundreds of feet below through the gap between the sidewalk and the road terrified them. The next time they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge would be their last, never making the return crossing.
• I remember Hansel every time I cross the bridge. The evenness of the number of my trips across it haunts me.
• I don’t remember the sound of Hansel’s laugh as vividly as I used to, as I did in the days after they died while it echoed on loop in my mind.,
• I remember Hansel telling me about their queerness, I was one of the few they told. I never told them I was a girl. The most painful part of coming out again was not being able to do it to them.
• I remember realizing shortly after Hansel’s death I hadn’t just lost a friend and community member, but a queer elder. I’d only ever lost family members before that, and I’ve never been particularly close to any of my family.
• I remember Hansel’s Catholic funeral that they wouldn’t have wanted. I cursed their dead body pumped full of formaldehyde for being dead. I thanked them for their life.
• I remember almost being killed by a driver on the way to the viewing at the Catholic funeral home in Colma, the Bay Area’s Philippino center, and the city of the dead. 5,000 living 5,000,000 dead. “It’s good to be alive in Colma” reads the sign at the border.
• I remember picking up the phone to Emily Horsman asking if I was ready for some heavy news. I said yes. Nothing could have prepared me.
• I remember the trips up and down from Petaluma to see Hansel’s dying body, hold their dying hand, even though I only made the trip twice.
• I think Hansel’s death makes me remember my mortality, but it only does that sometimes.
• I remember Hansel’s voice and mannerisms in my head like an angel on my shoulder. I hope never to not be haunted by it.
• I remember Jay being haunted by “the dead guy’s stuff” in his apartment. I remember my mint “Slow Is Forever” bandana taking on new meaning: we gave one each to a select group of people who had been especially close with Hansel.
• I remember the funeral praying the rosary for Hansel. They would have fucking hated it.