I remember sitting at the breakfast table with Grandma when I was a little boy. I would hungrily devour the wonderful meal of scrambled eggs, homemade pancakes, sausage and sometimes-fried bologna. I would curiously peer up from my plate between bites, fearful that the delicacies before me would disappear and just watch Grandma. Her face was worn, showcasing signs of happiness and sadness, but she was regal. As I searched her face for some reaction, she would look up from her newspaper, catch me spying on her and gently smiled.
As she sat there with her morning cup of Maxwell House and the Salem cigarette she would allow me to steal puffs from, I sensed something different in Grandma’s demeanor. I looked at her with the attention I had only displayed on Saturday mornings, while watching the Bugs Bunny/Road Runner cartoons. This particular morning she seemed somber. I noticed next to her ashtray filled with cigarette butts, was her well worn telephone book. As she flipped the pages of the Metro section, I noticed how she would compare a name she came across in the paper to a name in her telephone book.

“Grandma, what ya doing?” I asked, as I stuffed the last piece of breakfast meat into my mouth. She thought carefully before she spoke. “I am erasing names from my telephone book,” she said with her shaky quivering voice. Not satisfied with the answer, I asked, “Why?”

Looking back now, I understand. Grandma was removing the name of a friend or a loved one who passed away. At thirty-eight years of age, I found myself picking up the same tradition my grandmother inadvertently passed on to me. A tradition I did not think would come until later in life. But, it is now my turn to erase away the name, address, telephone number of a brother, a friend or former lover.

Since September of 1993, I have gone through my fair share of telephone books. Addresses have changed for some, telephone numbers disconnected and sadly, friends transitioning as a result of HIV disease.

At first, it was hard. Hard to look at just a simple name scribbled on a piece of paper, to remind you of how to get in contact with him. The number was sometimes misplaced or discarded. But if luck was on your side, you would come across it and think, “I wonder what the hell he is doing?” You were urged to pick up the received and dial. Sometimes, you were greeted with voice mail or a forwarding number. Sometimes, luck ran out and you found out the bad news. He has since died.

This has happened to me more than I want to remember or count. Friends leaving this Earth without as much as a good-bye. And I erase away. I erase away the numbers, but not the memories.

Mannie was truly a beautiful person. He was not only my roommate, but my friend. Sam urged me to continue to write even when I didn’t want to. Randy made me laugh at life. Keith encouraged me to stand tall and embrace me. Peter showed me what a loving, platonic friendship could be. Juan forced me to look inside and see the beauty within. Ray was the first to take me under his wing when I came out. Thomas changed my life by infecting me.

Their telephone numbers now belong to others. Their apartments and homes are now filled with new families and lovers. But their memories are the only thing that reminds me they were here.

Today I erased another name from my telephone book. Tell me Lord, “How many more?”