Tim’s Trust
I stare at the photo as though I’d never seen it before. Alone in my living room, I hold the black and white Polaroid in my hand and start to choke up. It’s been twenty-fours since Tim died. When I returned home for the holiday break Tim overheard me talking to our mom in the kitchen about my first experience at a gay bar as a college freshman. “I need to talk to you,” he said. We walked down the wooden stairs to his bedroom in the back of the basement. “There’s something I need to tell you. I’m gay.”
