It was snowing the night Danny died. Hour-old snow, with flakes crisp and light, blanketing the ground. The trees, naked all these months without their leaves, had only thin white shavings to cover their black crooked limbs.

I remember drinking a cherry scotch, because Sara had concocted it and it tasted so terrible I'm bound never to forget. The cabin was quiet, too, not even a crackle from the fireplace, because it was an artificial fireplace that used gas instead of wood. The standard 14-inch logs propped there were purely for show.

I was sitting on the couch, the afghan against my back, Sara on the floor at my feet. She had her head face-down in my lap, her right hand holding her glass, her left fist clenched against my thigh. Under any other circumstances, we would've laughed at the picture we made, but back then we were silent. Mostly silent, yeah.

I asked her about Bruno, and how he was coping at his new school. Bruno's not his real name (nobody with an inch of mercy would name a kid "Bruno" in this day and age, and nobody should), but he was at that "I wanna be a wrestler when I grow up" phase, which necessitated a good stage-name, and Sara was more than willing to substitute her kid's name for "Bruno the Brutal" rather than his first choice, "MoFo the Maniac."

"It's all that TV, is what does it to you," she liked to say, usually while watching Sex in the City or Playgirls.

Usually I watched along with her while Danny worked in the kitchen. Not because I had the remotest interest in women, but so that I wouldn't have to help with dinner. He probably knew that, though he never brought it up or gave more than a wry look whenever he left the kitchen.

"You're such a girl," he'd tease, carrying a pot of spaghetti over to the dining table where a Pyrex bowl waited.

"So says the one wearing the frilly apron," I'd grin.

"It's not frilly. It has red trimmings around the edges."

"All right, so says the one wearing an apron with red trimmings around the edges. That sounds so much better."

At this point Sara would roll her eyes and tell us both to hush, that the best part was coming up. Even if it was a rerun. Especially if it was a rerun.

That night at the cabin, I told Sara how I attempted to iron Danny's shirts once, and not being very good at it. He'd studied the results and asked me for wrinkle-free shirts for his next birthday.

"Give me points for trying," I'd protested indignantly as his laughter finally faded. "It's the thought that counts. And nobody ever taught me how to iron. Just because you're gay doesn't mean you're born with June Cleaver intuition."

"I wasn't aware one needed to be taught to iron," he'd said, a twinkle in his eyes. "Isn't it rather self-explanatory?"

"There are settings. Many settings."

"I thought ours was automated. Cotton or silk. My shirts are cotton." He retrieved both the appliance and the garments to prove it.

I replied with either a "hmph" or "The instructions were in Spanish," I can't remember which.

That night at the cabin, as Danny drew his last breath, I thought it was rather stupid of me that I couldn't remember. Wasn't that what it was about? The exact words to every memory? Weren't they supposed to be clearer, somehow, when it involved actual goodbyes, actual deathbeds? None of the protagonists in movies and books ever showed them saying in the final scene, "I don't remember."

Or maybe some did. Maybe I've forgotten those as well.

But I clearly, vividly remember being too angry to speak, too vulnerable to touch, too scared to look. I'd thought I'd be over that, that we'd say goodbye with me kissing his forehead, a look of resignation and sorrow as I moved his hair from his brow one last time.

Instead I laid on the couch, staring at the fire, while he breathed deep, labored breaths in bed, until finally Sara came out of the bedroom and touched my shoulder, and I just knew. Didn't have to turn my head or look at her, I just knew.

I didn't even get up to see him then. I just laid there until she turned the fire down and went to bed.

We'd had six months to prepare. I was supposed to be there for him, to say goodbye. I was supposed to be ready.

I almost hate him for not demanding to see me before he left. Surely he knew it was time. Wasn't it supposed to be instinctive, knowing when you're going to die? Or was that a lie, too, perpetuated by Hollywood, et cetera? He did ask for me -- Sara passed on the message -- but I was afraid, and he didn't press me, and I so goddamned wish he had.

I so goddamned wish he had.

He wasn't supposed to go, thinking it was his fault I couldn't breathe, his fault I couldn't scream, his fault I stared at the bathroom mirror under its harsh yellow light before slamming my fist against the sink.

There's still a crack on the ceramic surface from that night. I haven't been able to bring myself to fix it.

I think, one day, I'll remember. I'll remember a lot of things, all of them, every moment with Danny, every expression, and I'll be telling them to everybody I know, everybody until they're all sick of me and glance at me with pity, until I'm not invited to parties until I shape up and "get over it."

And I'm afraid, so afraid, that when that day does come, it will be too late.