Twenty years ago, I didn't know the difference between a Democrat and a Republican. My friend Lane and I were riding bikes on a quiet street in Monument, where we were both reporters, when I asked her to explain the differences to me. I think she said that while there was much more to it, Republicans were basically about supporting big business and Democrats concerned with social issues.

As a young reporter, one might think this subject would have held more interest for me. But I asked her not a single follow-up question. My mind went almost immediately back to Dennis Lucero, with whom I had made out once or twice and who likely would be at the pub that evening.

Quickly, likely the night I encountered him at said pub with a gorgeous woman on his lap, I would learn that Dennis Lucero was a complete dog of a man. Much more slowly, I would learn more about the two major political parties.

Over the years, I saw myself begin to lean left. Almost imperceptibly at first. Perhaps I had always tended this way, but it hadn't been something of which I was conscious. My interest in politics and issues grows now at a far more rapid rate. And while I will never consider myself politically savvy, I now lean enough to the left that I'm just slightly lopsided.

The tiny grain of curiosity that, at 23, prompted me to ask my friend that ignorant question has grown into a hunger.

I attribute my late-coming interest in liberal politics to several things: My years as a reporter, most of them spent in free-living, liberal mountain ski resort towns, and particularly my three years as a reporter in uber-conservative Colorado Springs where right-wing politicans, leaders and the resulting issues were unavoidable. I attribute it even to the breakdown of my early 20s, which left me a less judgmental and more empathetic person. But most of all, I give credit for it to a former co-worker, the person to whom I sent my December letter and who I believe is now part of my past. The passion with which this rather hot Democratic editor spoke of politics prompted me not only to fall in love with him, but in part with the subject itself. If there's a purpose for everyone who comes into your life, perhaps his was not to be the soulmate I'd believed he was, but to pique my interest in issues far larger than myself.

Because of that combination of influences, I pay far closer attention to the news. I read articles about politics that would have put me to sleep a few years ago. On the front seat of my car is a case for Barack Obama's "The Audacity of Hope" book on CD. I need, even yearn, to know more about Hillary Clinton.

I recently volunteered to help with the Democratic National Convention coming to Denver in August. My friend Dave assures me I'll be standing around with seniors checking credentials. To him, this is tedious and below me. To me, the prospect is thrilling and frankly, given the surge of interest in this election, I think he's wrong about the seniors. "You need to get invited to the parties," he says. "I'll get you in. Don't worry." I'll take this, too. I'll take it all. I want to be involved, period.

I feel a thrill of pride when a thoroughly Republican manager in our company stops to talk to me about the presidential candidates, asking whom, as a "good liberal," I'm supporting. In truth, I do not yet know, but the fact that he thinks my opinion valid comes as a pleasant shock. The fact that he thinks me far more liberal and wise than I actually am, well, that part I'll keep to myself. So far, I have the wool pulled over his eyes. I like it there. What he doesn't know is that I've been uncommitted my whole life.

Until now.

Last week, I registered as a Democrat.

I was prompted to do so by the words of a conservative radio talk show host, who asserted that nonaffiliated voters are, in so many words, dead weight. People too wishy-washy to choose sides and who instead sit safely on the political fence. Pick a side. Dig into it. If you find in the long run it isn't for you, switch. But do, indeed be, something, he urged. I did something. I sat down at my computer, pulled up the county's election division Web site and, at 43, committed myself to a party.

Barack Obama, Bill Clinton and George W. all descended upon Denver in the last two days. Obama drew 18,000 people, overflowing the University of Denver arena and another building quickly opened to handle the crowds, still leaving 4,000 more standing in a soccer field, hoping for a glimpse of him. Clinton drew 3,000 to the same arena. George W., here for a private fundraiser, drew little but ill will when his motorcade closed down I-25 in both directions during the evening rush hour.

It is the talk of this big town. I heard two elderly ladies discussing it when I left Target this eve. "No, Obama was yesterday morning. Clinton was last night and Bush was today," one gray-haired woman said to her bench mate.

I smiled at this. The sense of excitement for these visitors is, to me, not unlike that which built week-by-week around the Rockies' winning streak and subsequent trip to the World Series. Something so big that it unites the residents of an entire city in a common fervor. It's a feeling that will only grow in Denver as the dates for the convention draw nearer.

I knew Obama was scheduled to appear. Somehow, I had not known Bill Clinton was coming, too. The dramatic decrease in the size of the crowds was due, in part, to a small blizzard that whirled through the metropolitan area around 6 p.m., as well as in the times of day in which they spoke. Obama spoke in the a.m., Clinton at 9:50 p.m.

I was disappointed to a far greater degree than I'd have imagined that I missed a chance to see and hear Bill Clinton. With a crowd of 3,000, in an arena designed to accommodate 10,000, I'd surely have been close to the man. Instead, my friends and I went dancing last night. How I wish, that instead of watching cowboys attempt to dance to hip hop, and brothers try the Boot-Scootin' Boogy (an entertaining evening to be sure), I'd have been at that arena.

In the wake of this crushing disappointment, I realize just how far I've come. How much I have changed. How much more I will evolve as the years, even these next few months, go by.

When I arrived home today, weary from sitting in the backlogged traffic created by W., I saw in my pile of mail a small postcard from the Douglas County Election Division. I received a similar one only a few weeks ago, when I'd registered my change of address. That card identified me as "unaffiliated." This card was different. I scanned it to make sure they'd made the change. It was so unobtrusive I almost missed it. Under a small box labeled "Affiliation" was a single letter: "D." This letter elicited in me a tiny thrill, and I felt immediately silly for it, not understanding why this affected me anymore than I understood my reaction to the Bill Clinton near miss.

Perhaps that understanding will dawn as time goes by. Perhaps this is more significant for me than I know. Time will tell.

And so I missed Bill. I've got another shot in August, and then I'll see them all. You can bet your boots on it.

The event was advertised as a way to learn how to harness positive emotions and live the life you want. It was based on a theory called the power of attraction, a theory that I believe has validity but that has become its own mini-industry with books and so-called professionals flooding shelves and airwaves to proclaim its magic. Simply put, the idea is that you get back what you put out. Positive attracts positive and passion draws passion, be it at work, home or play.

This meeting, which I found on the Meetup site I routinely peruse for unusual things to do, was based on the movie and book “The Secret.” I have never read the book but have read others like it, among them "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People," and heard enough to get the gist of it. Two friends I highly respect said "The Secret" was “worth a read.”

Beyond that, it was Wednesday night. And I needed a break from Exercise TV and boxed wine. What had I to lose besides a stomach not quite as taut as it could be?

The meeting was held at a remodeled convention studio in a sketchy part of town. The closer I came to it, the more I thought about turning around. My car was wending its way behind the Broncos stadium. The stadium looks nice on TV, but notice they never pan around the immediate area much. That’s cuz it’s ugly. A blue-collar neighborhood peppered with soup kitchens and dollar stores. I know. I love dollar stores.

But the building itself looked nice enough, and the only person I could see well wore a suit. Surely this was a respectable event.

About 20 people milled around a lobby, all of them wearing “Hi, My Name Is” tags. Two women sitting at a table asked me to register. I filled out a piece of paper with my name, address and phone (all fictional, as usual).

“What is your name?” asked one of the women as she prepared to fill out my name tag. “Oh, Jane!” She smiled at me. “I like that name.”

A dash of red lipstick clung to one of her front teeth. I debated telling her.

“Thanks,” I said. “You really don’t hear it much, even if people do think it’s common.”

“Oh, I agree!” she said, flashing her red tooth at me again. “Well, my name’s Linda. How often do you hear that?”

She winked at me. “Women of a certain age, Jane.”

I stared at her. She was at least 15 years older than me. She wore her gray hair cropped close to the sides of her head. She was heavy, and reminded me far more of my mother than any women my age I knew.

“What are you saying?” I asked, grinning sweetly. “I don’t even know Janes my own age, much less older.”

But Linda failed to note, or simply didn’t think, she’d gaffed. Well, fine, I decided. She could walk around all night with lipstick on her teeth. I would never tell her now!

It was at this point that I probably should have left. Barely in the door, I’d been, however unwittingly, insulted. Plus, they wanted me to wear a name tag. How much worse could it get?

But I stepped aside and gazed at the knots of people gathered here and there in the lobby. Among each group of regular looking folks, identifiable by their blue jeans, was a suit-and-tie wearing man, grinning – like good old Linda – a tad too widely. In each case, the suit was speaking and the people around him were listening intently, smiling in sync with him.

Instinctively, I steered clear of them and stood by myself near the back of the lobby, waiting for them to open the doors to the conference room.

One other person stood aside similarly, an Asian man in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans. He looked to be about my age. That is, about 15 years younger than Linda.

But I didn’t speak to him either. Something about this set-up felt, well, greasy to me and I didn’t trust anyone. It wasn’t just Linda, or the insanely happy suits. The huge black signs in the lobby added to my sense of unease.

“Welcome to SGR Club!” they heralded. Above, the words read, “The Science of Getting Rich Club.”

And below, a photo of an elderly gentlemen leaning on a desk. “I’ll teach you the principles of living the life you want and how to create income opportunities!”

None of this was what I had expected. The signs and material I’d seen so far seemed focused on wealth, not happiness. And “club” implied dues. I found the name, "Science of Getting Rich," repulsive.

Before I could come to a decision about staying, one of the happy suits opened the conference room doors and invited us in.

I trailed in among the last, along with the Asian man. We both sat at a table near the back with a large, blonde woman.

I saw more of the huge black signs, a computer set in Power Point mode and pointing at a massive screen. The elderly gentlemen smiled at us from every corner of the room.

“Pretty awesome, isn’t it?” said the woman next to us.

She slid a flyer across the table to us, her new companions.

“The Zen Swing,” it read, “Great for meditating, relaxing and entertaining.”

“This is mine!” she said, pointing excitedly to the picture on the card. “I’m getting a patent on it.”

I stared at the photo of a child seated in a canvas swing, one of the variety of chairs you see at Renaissance Festivals and arts and crafts shows nationwide.

I stared, too, at the woman’s hands, which were disturbingly large.

Her face was broad, full and bland. She wore a lavender tank top and I noticed a massive sweat stain underneath one breast. Or what appeared to be a breast. It was clear to me that my new friend was a man.

“What’s so different about this than any others like this I’ve seen?”

I asked.

She smiled at me indulgently. “Oh, it’s not that. It’s this!”

She pointed to the huge metal, triangular frame from which the swing hung. It looked like a frameless teepee, and occupied a space as big as my backyard.

“Wow,” said the man next to me. “I don’t have a yard that big.”

“Well,” she said, “you’d just have to buy one! And if you keep coming here, you’ll have the money for a yard that big!”

“You’re not here by accident, you know,” she said, leaning toward us both. “You were drawn here tonight for a reason. Every step in our life brings us closer to what we want, if we just listen. It’s all in the cards for you now. You’re in the right place.”

She smiled beatifically. I wished I’d chosen any other seat in the house, though I suspect similar messages were being relayed at those tables, too.

The woman asked for our business cards. I lied and said I didn’t have one with me. The man next to me pulled out his wallet and fumbled around in it, then looked up sheepishly. “Sorry, I don’t have one either.”

“Well that’s OK,” she said. “Just write it down here.”

She slid a piece of paper toward me. I wrote down a fictitious e-mail address. I saw the man’s pen pause, and then he scrawled what I also was sure was a false address on the paper.

Then, to our relief, the presentation began.

A young, suited man named Lance took the microphone and spoke, his tone overflowing with passion as he read every single word from a sheet of paper laid on a table before him. Occasionally, he’d look up, smile brilliantly and raise a fist or hand to emphasize a point. But even I, as a beginning Toastmaster, knew his speech skills needed serious work, not jut for presentation but content.

Lance explained that he’d come to the SRG by some miracle, I think it was. He had been, for all intents and purposes, saved from a life of poverty into one of huge wealth. Or at least he was sure it would be that way; he was with the program and walking it every day.

“Who would like more abundance?” he asked in a booming voice, looking up at the dozen tables scattered throughout the room.

To my shock, the response was rousing. “We would!”

“Who would like more happiness?” he asked.

“We would!”

“Are you ready to have fun tonight?” Lance asked.

“YES!” shouted what sounded like a massive crowd of people.

“I didn’t hear you!” he teased, grinning.

“YES!!!”

Someone whooped. Someone else cried, “Yeah!” with the excitement of a cowboy conquering a bucking bronc.

I was astounded. Who were these people? The Denverites I knew did not respond like this to anything but a sporting event.

Then I noticed that at every table but ours, either a suit or a commonly attired person wearing a black-and-yellow SGR name tag sat. Their grins were all identical – massive and nearly plastic. When they shouted, several of their tablemates seemed to get caught up in it all, and respond with equal gusto. I noted only a handful of people who sat back in their chairs, expressionless and reserved.

My Asian friend, who sat as I did with arms crossed, glanced back at me and very subtly rolled his eyes. I felt a flood of relief to know I was not alone in this insane asylum.

Lance introduced RaeAnn, a pert, middle-aged lady in an ill-fitting black suit who, I quickly learned, possessed speaking skills only slightly better than Lance’s. She only sneaked peeks at her notes, but still, she clung to them. Unfortunately, she also shared with Lance a strong set of lungs and a thunderstorm of passion.

“Hi, I’m RaeAnn and I am financially free!” she said. The crowd roared its excitement, applauding her wildly.

I thought again about leaving. I knew that within 20 minutes, we’d be asked to buy something. Something big. I knew also that the SRG Club felt like a cult with its leader, the elderly gentlemen on all the signs and flyers, appearing to me a grizzled version of Jim Jones.

But I was already there. The night was cold, the drive had been long and Wednesday night TV was crap. Most of all, I realized this would make a great blog.

RaeAnn reminded us that the principles of the SRG club were based on “The Secret.”

She looked at her notes, paused dramatically and, eyes still fastened on her cheat sheet, shouted into her microphone, “Based on what?”

“The Secret!”

“Welcome to this movement!” she said. Pause. “Welcome to this what?”

“Movement!”

It both amused and frightened me that no one else, except perhaps the Asian man whose back was turned to me, was fighting back laughter.

RaeAnn instructed us to figure out the most important thing in our lives.

“That’s your main thing,” she said. “Now, the main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”

Her radiant smile indicated to us she’d just passed along some golden pearl of wisdom.

Then she paused and I knew the audience participation part was next. “To keep the what?”

“Main thing!”

RaeAnn asked us to consider our passion, and then realize we could all make money doing what we loved best. We received worksheets on which to jot down the things we loved most.

The Asian man revealed he loved most of all to dance, but simply wasn’t good enough to earn a living at it. He indulged in salsa and swing outside of his civil engineering job. I noted again the tight shirt, and the muscles bulging underneath it. A dancer’s body. I liked him for having an artistic bent. I wanted to see him dance, but stopped short of asking him where he practiced his passion.

I revealed my love of writing, and the fact that journalism didn’t pay well enough.

Blessedly, the manly blonde had vanished somewhere between Lance and RaeAnn.

RaeAnn asked several audience members to talk about their passions. Each person who stood received a generous round of wild applause just because, RaeAnn said, “it’s nice to be recognized, isn’t it?”.

RaeAnn soon revealed that we were lucky to be there, lucky because just by coming, we were able to take advantage of a special membership fee offered to no one else. A membership package including CDs, books, an MP3 player, access to live conference calls with our elderly leader and a ticket to a future conference – that alone valued at more than $2,000 – all wrapped up in a leather binder.

The market value of this, she exclaimed excitedly, was $8,000. Ours for only $1,995.

RaeAnn emphasized there was no hurry or obligation associated with the offer. We could return to the weekly SRG meetings for free as long as we wanted. But of course, the knowledge we could glean from the meetings was limited. The true secrets were in the package!

My Asian friend, whose name I never learned, turned to me and whispered, “Are you coming back next week?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded, and in the way he studied me, I could see the law of attraction at work. I saw that if I did just one or two things differently, if I tipped my head, asked a single question or smiled with the right degree or sincerity, he would ask for my phone number.

The woman decides, a man had told me years ago. The woman always decides, he said, it’s never our choice.

For the first time in my life, I saw clearly that this was the case. I was startled by the realization. But I did none of those things, and am left to wonder if I made the right choice.

“Well hey, it was nice meeting you,” he said, gathering his notepad and scooting out of his chair. “Best of luck.”

“You, too,” I said. “Keep dancing.”

He was barely gone with a young suit stood before me, grinning maniacally. I wondered if his jacket concealed a winding mechanism, if RaeAnn or the elderly mentor possessed the key that kept these strange beings walking and talking in alien manner.

“What did you think?” he asked.

“Great,” I said. “But I’m gonna go home and think about it.”

He frowned for the first time all night. “What’s there to think about?”

I paused and stared at him, trying to think of an answer that would clearly indicate to him he was wasting his time.

“I’m really not sure,” I started, watching him lean toward me, “I want to be rich.”

The winter day was cool and sunny, the beer dark and cold, the cocktail sauce on the cold shrimp hot with horseradish. My friend and I were passing a blissful afternoon on Boulder's Pearl Street Mall, when she said something that struck me to the core.

She was speaking of her husband. “After all these years together, after all that man’s put up with from me, he still loves me. I find that amazing.”

Actually, I think she said it more lyrically than that, but I’ve been wracking my brain for several minutes for the exact phrasing and screw it, that’s to the best of my recollection.

Then she added, “That’s why I’ll allow things like the 8-foot mounted swordfish over the bed.”

I throw that in apart from her first quote because it just doesn’t quite jibe with the beauty of that initial phrase. But I throw it in anyway because it’s damn funny, and makes a point of its own.

But back to that word: Amazement. It could be used to describe anything awe-inspiring, from a horrible accident to a football game won in the last few seconds of overtime. But when my friend said it, it sounded like neither of those things. It sounded like something holy, like a miracle.

Her words struck me, too, as amazing. And incredibly cheering.

For it seems to me love should be amazing, an idea I have sometimes feared is naive, based on my own inexperience. To hear someone so deep into a relationship say that it exists sends a shivers down the spine. I suspect this is one of those key elusive elements found among solidly bonded couples.

You could say it points to a sense of insecurity. But I think not. I think it indicates a sense of reverence for this most transcendent of emotions. For love, which sees all and enfolds it all into one bear hug of an embrace.

It’s the same shiver of recognition and deep yearning I feel at hearing Alanis Morissette’s “Everything.” This idea, this grand hope, brings me near tears every time I play it.

You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can’t relate
And you’re still here

My sense is that my last relationship, already strained by a distance of several states, ended almost two years into it when he saw me in a clinical depression. Knowing about the bipolar disorder was one thing, dealing with it quite another. I’ll never know for sure because after that, he simply stopped calling, and changed his phone number.

I’m left with the idea, nearly a conviction, that something that is part of me, a factor I don’t think I can change, was unacceptable to him. So ugly that he ran. So now I wonder, next time a relationship turns serious, what will happen when I reveal my not-so-pretty history, my unpredictable disorder? What will happen, too, when I expose the character flaws that can’t be attributed or blamed on bipolar disorder?

Wouldn’t it be amazing if he loved me anyway?

Even though I sometimes feel alone in this, I know I’m standing hip-to-hip in a cavernous room full of like-minded people. Whether single or part of a couple, we are all far too aware of our flaws, all far too unaware of how amazing we each are, how deserving of love.

I sometimes have a hard time picturing that all-encompassing variety of love. But last weekend I saw it, written like a poem on my friend’s face.

It was, quite simply, amazing.

Ten days or so ago, my phone rang with happy news. The downtown comedy club was giving me tickets to an upcoming show.

Basically, this means Comedy Works has a show that is not selling well. So they pick a name out of their fish bowl, call you and say, “Congratulations! You’ve won a shitload of $5 tickets!” This all sounds good. Twenty $5 tickets for you and your closest buddies!

But it quickly turns into a popularity test. Is it possible you have 19 friends?

If you’re like me, you e-mail a list of folks, stretching the definition of “friend” to include anyone on your e-mail list living in the Denver metro area whom you’ve seen laugh. You tell them, with great excitement, about the awesome deal you have for them – realizing only later that if they’ve ever been to the Comedy Works, they, too, have gotten this same phone call and done this same weeknight scramble.

Then, you sit back and wait for a flurry of e-mail responses. Who wouldn't want to go?? After all, it's some comedian of whom you've never heard! But he must be good. He's been on HBO! It says so right there in the mailer the club sent along with the tickets that look mimeographed.

No one responds immediately. Perhaps, I think, I'll manage to assemble half a dozen. But the e-mail inbox does not fill.

Come on, people! It’s a Wednesday night! That’s a good night to be going out. A perfectly fine night. Easy parking. Light traffic. The works!

I emphasize that the club will be calling for an RSVP list, that it’s vital to know how many people are coming some time in advance. Still … no reply.

One person finally e-mails that she’ll check with her SO and get back to me.

Two days before, two other people e-mail that they’re working, or their spouse is working, or they’re working on an excuse not to go, or something.

What I end up with is this: One friend. Her boyfriend. And his married brother, whom I’ve never before met.

We decide to carpool. On the night of the big event, the married brother hops into boyfriend’s RV with a six-pack cooler in hand. The door is barely closed before he opens it, pops off a bottle top and begins drinking. He pauses for a second when his brother introduces him, to reach around, shake my hand and mumble a “hey, nice to meet cha.”

We are 10 minutes into our half hour drive when he pops his second beer. He does not offer to share. Despite drinking an additional five beers before night’s end, he does not become obnoxious. I realize this likely is because his tolerance is quite high.

Parking is not easy. Or cheap. It is $15. There is much grumbling about this between the driver, brother and friend. But hey, we’re half a block from the door! This does not seem to cheer them and I realize that the trio accompanying me on this merry adventure is grumpy.

Because I have no cash to contribute to the parking fee, I buy boyfriend’s ticket, and offer to buy the first round. No one objects.

In the blink of an eye, the $5 ticket has morphed into a $30 entry fee. I swallow hard, knowing there is still a two-drink-minimum purchase during the show.

Oh well. It’s a night out downtown.

The only other problem is that my friend, who is under probation for a DUI, subject to random breath tests and who had testified she will not drink or smoke for nine solid months (and who does not read this blog), orders a beer while we're still standing in the lobby.

Boyfriend frowns. “You might have to blow tomorrow,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “One drink leaves your system in .43 hours,” she says. “It’ll be out of my system by the time they can get me in.”

I realize this statistical information is what she’s gleaned so far from her alcohol classes. And who said it would be a waste of time?

“Besides,” she says, “I’m only gonna have a couple. C'mon. Let's step out and have a smoke."

A couple, as it turns out, means four.

Their drink orders come fast and furious. Before I am halfway through mine, they order another. Each time, the waitress turns to me with a thinly disguised sneer. "And you? Are you ready?"

"No, not yet," I say, stopping just short of offering an apology.

Midway through the show, my friend leans over and whispers, “He’s all freaked out because I’m drinking.”

I whisper back, “I am, too.”

She ignores me for the rest of the show. Grumpy, like I said.

This is not my problem, I tell myself. Relax and enjoy.

Show over, we clamber back in the SUV and hit the road. Married brother pops a beer, takes a pull and laughs. He turns around and grins at me.

“Funny shit, eh?”

I give him a broad, genuine smile and a nod of complete agreement. "Yeah," I say. "Very funny shit!"

This morning, I programmed the Comedy Works number into my phone. Next time they call, I'll be screening.

It looks like nothing more than a Christmas card envelope, a bit thicker than most, but a boxy, standard card-shaped envelope bearing a cheery, seasonal return address label, and a Kwanzaa stamp (just for the sake of being different). It slides down the metal ramp into the blue mailbox standing sentinel outside the King Soopers store. Slides away and disappears from view. Out of sight. Out of control. Irretrievable.

It is, of course, a Christmas card envelope. Sealed inside is a card complete with hokey greeting, its front adorned by three grinning, glittering snowmen on an equally glittery sled. Inside, too, is the Christmas photo everyone receives: A woman, her son and off to the side, a dog who refuses to cooperate with the photographer, standing in front of a suburban split level home. The woman's arm is around the boy, reaching out to touch the dog. The gesture is protective, as though she is holding on to all the things she loves, right here, right now. As though by doing so, the boy, who stands just slightly apart and this year less than a foot from her full height, will never leave her side. As though by keeping a hand on it, the old dog will never die. It is a snapshot of a little family, one some might call nontraditional but a unit of a size and composition that, in 2007, is almost more common than not.

But what makes the envelope fat is the third piece of paper, one no other card recipient receives.

It is a love letter. It is, however subtly worded, an ultimatum. It is a confession. It is a plea, a paper hand extending fingers shaky with hope that someone will take them, shaky with fear and sad expectation that they will be left dangling. It is a goodbye. It is one of the bravest, most terrifying things the woman in the photograph has ever done.

Once it disappears down the chute, there is grocery shopping to be done. Regular, everyday life to live. Routine tasks to complete. With the letter released from sweaty hands, with an answer forthcoming either in silence or in a response, everything is for the next several moments off kilter. The lights in the grocery store are too bright. People's faces look almost cartoonish, comically warped. Sound has a brightness, a bizarre quality that nearly elicits laughter. To walk is to float. The senses are either on razor-sharp alert or dulled by a sudden wash of rarely released brain chemicals. All is surreal.

The world tilts so because now, after years of hope, belief and unwavering faith in a relationship, a man who has been silent for months and physically absent for more than a year, this letter pushes for an answer. If it comes in silence, the belief is no more than fantasy and wasted emotion. If it comes in the form of a response, faith is rewarded. Life will never be a fairy tale but it could be, just might be, something wonderful. A relationship built on commonality with a beautifully flawed, complex, brilliant individual. A person loved not for his gender, but for the complex mix of emotions and characteristics that make him human. A person loved, however cliche it sounds, for his soul.

Either way, the letter is a beginning. If only in the form of freedom from the not knowing that binds tight.

Three weeks later, the answer is surely here. The letter does not come back. The phone does not ring. The name that makes this heart race when it appears in the G-mail inbox did not appear.

This roller coaster ride began almost four years ago. It comes to a halt not with the screams of white-knuckled fright, cries of frustration or whoops of joy that marked its course, but with the loudest sound of all: Silence.