The Mormon I Loved

He was a married man, but he spoke in the sissiest voice you ever heard. Raised a Catholic, he had converted to Mormonism because it seemed more logical. He was willing to affirm belief in the golden plates, even though at some level he knew the truth. He could believe that around 400 AD an emigre from Egypt to the Americas named Mormon and his son Moroni inscribed the Book of Mormon on golden plates and buried them in upstate New York, waiting for Joseph Smith, who discovered them, translated them with a mystic stone into the Book of Mormon and then reburied them, never to be found again. Believing in an all-powerful God, my friend could not hold this account impossible. Therefore - he could believe it possible.

We roomed together for six months long ago, long before the world exploded into madness. Our first night together, he came out of the shower nude, lay down on the sofabed, and announced that he wasn't shy, and that he hoped I wasn't, either. We weren't.

Far from his home in Salt Lake, far from his wife and nest-departed offspring, he could be freer.

He was loyal to his church. He tithed. He wore the special underwear that guarantees fruition.

He was also wonderfully entertaining, travelled, fun to have adventures with, and sensitive to my own life as a fully ripened fruit on God's little apple tree.

A lease opened up. He was gone.

We had fun.