Yesterday was World AIDS Day.
This year is like any of the last 35 years since my Uncle Charlie died of AIDS. If my math is correct he would have been around 35 years old in the above photo. He was on the cusp of 38 when he died.
It’s a strange thing to realize that so many of the men I used to know as a boy, men who protected me, doted on me, made me feel seen have been gone for most of my life. I’ve told you the story of my Uncle Charlie before.
It’s funny the way things will pop into my brain. The other day I was talking with my wife and mother-in-law about things I miss about the United States now that we live in Paris and I mentioned Jif peanut butter. MIL asked, “what about people?” and I had a strange, immediate thought cross my mind: I’ve been missing people most of my life.
I have especially been missing my Uncle Charlie and his friends who helped mold me into the tolerant asshole that I am today. I say asshole because I am proud of bein…
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