The Long Way Home On A Road Less Traveled

The stairs down to The Sanctuary feel different tonight—less like shedding armor and more like settling into something warm and worn, a favorite coat that knows the shape of my body. November’s first real cold snap followed me through the alley door, and the basement’s warmth wraps around me like an apology for the world above.

Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” pours through the sound system as I descend, Stevie Nicks asking questions about getting older that I’ve been dodging for fifty-three years. Can I handle the seasons of my life? The question lands differently now than it did at twenty, at thirty, at forty. Now it lands like prophecy.

The basement glows its usual sunset crimson, but tonight the crowd skews older than usual. Bubba’s massive frame occupies his usual spot by the window, Remy tucked against his shoulder in that particular configuration they’ve developed over decades—two bodies that learned to fit together long before the world decided they were allowed to. Elaine holds court at the far end of the bar, sixty years of survival mapped in laugh lines and fuck-you lines, rum collins sweating in her grip. Lisa sits beside her, practical farm-girl energy radiating even while perched on a barstool, still navigating her new lesbian phase with the particular intensity of someone who wasted too many years pretending.

Miguel catches my eye the moment my foot hits the basement floor, already reaching for something beneath the bar with that surgical precision I’ve come to depend on.

You look like you’ve been thinking too hard, he says, sliding a glass toward me before I’ve even settled onto my stool.

The liquid catches light like autumn trapped in crystal—deep amber with copper undertones, legs sliding slow and thick down the glass walls. I bring it to my nose and catch caramel, toasted oak, something darker underneath like dried fruit left too long in the sun. The first sip burns gentle and spreads warm, coating my tongue with vanilla and leather and the faintest hint of smoke.

Eagle Rare, Miguel offers. Ten years in the barrel. Figured you needed something that took its time getting where it was going.

You’re not wrong.

Ezra’s claimed their usual beanbag throne, blue hair electric against the crimson walls, but tonight they’re quiet—watching the room with that anthropologist’s attention they usually reserve for drawing. Their sketchbook lies closed on their lap, which means something’s brewing in that beautiful chaotic brain of theirs.

Della emerges from the kitchen carrying a cast-iron skillet of something that smells like Sunday morning—bacon, probably, and caramelized onions, the particular aromatics of comfort food designed to hold people together when the world tries pulling them apart. She sets it on the bar with practiced ease, her spatula-hand finally empty.

Frittata, she announces. With whatever the fuck was about to go bad in the walk-in. Eat it or watch me throw it at someone who won’t.

Keira materializes at my elbow—I didn’t see her enter, but that’s how it always works with her. She’s calibrated to my frequency in ways I’ve stopped trying to understand. Her shoulder presses against mine as she claims the stool beside me, and the contact feels like coming home.

Elaine’s been holding forth for the past hour, she says quietly. You might want to settle in.

I follow her gaze to where Elaine is gesturing expansively, rum collins sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. Lisa leans in, listening with the intensity of someone taking notes for an exam she didn’t know was coming.

—and I told that little shit in the bow tie that I wasn’t going back in any goddamn closet just because I needed someone to wipe my ass when I can’t do it myself anymore. Elaine’s voice carries like she’s projecting to the back row of a theater. Sixty years of fighting to be who I am, and this walking recruitment poster for conversion therapy wants me to “consider the comfort of other residents.”

River crosses my field of vision, still in scrubs—forest green tonight, probably fresh off a twelve-hour shift of healing strangers while their own heart needed tending. They settle into the space between Bubba and Remy with the ease of someone who’s been claimed by this particular family unit. The three of them together look like a study in generations—Bubba and Remy carrying decades of Southern survival, River bringing medical precision and youthful determination to whatever conversation I’ve apparently walked into the middle of.

What did I miss? I ask Miguel, keeping my voice low.

Elaine toured a senior living facility today. His face says everything his words don’t. It did not go well.

Miranda slides onto the stool on Keira’s other side, forty-one years of trans womanhood and motherhood written in the elegant lines of her face. She moves like poetry given form—always has, even when the world tried convincing her she didn’t have the right to that particular grace.

They asked her about her “husband,” Miranda says, her voice carrying the weight of someone who’s faced that particular erasure herself. When she corrected them, they suggested she might be “more comfortable” at a different facility.

Comfortable. I taste the word like ash. That’s the one they always use, isn’t it? Comfortable. Like our existence is an inconvenience to be managed.

The Fleetwood Mac fades into Kansas—“Dust in the Wind” filling the basement with its particular brand of gorgeous devastation. All we are is dust in the wind. The timing feels cruel, or maybe just honest.

Elaine’s raised her voice enough that pretending not to listen becomes impossible.

Twenty-three years with Barbara, she’s saying, Lisa nodding along with wide eyes. Twenty-three years of building a life, and when she got sick, the hospital tried to keep me out of her room because I wasn’t “family.” She air-quotes the word with such venom I’m surprised her fingers don’t draw blood. Her brother—who hadn’t spoken to her in fifteen goddamn years—had more legal standing than I did. I had to watch the love of my life die from the hallway.

The basement goes quiet. Even the frittata seems to stop sizzling.

That was before marriage equality, Lisa says carefully, like she’s trying to find solid ground in quicksand.

And you think a piece of paper would have fixed everything? Elaine’s laugh sounds like broken glass. Honey, I’ve got friends with marriage certificates who’ve watched nurses deadname their spouses on their deathbeds. I’ve got friends whose kids swooped in and overruled every end-of-life wish because they couldn’t handle their father dying as the woman she always was.

River shifts uncomfortably, and I watch the nurse in them war with the person in them—professional knowledge colliding with personal truth.

She’s not wrong, River says quietly, voice carrying the particular weight of someone who’s witnessed this from the inside. I’ve seen it. Families show up when someone’s dying and suddenly all the legal documents in the world don’t mean shit if the care team decides to “defer to family wishes.” They make the air quotes with exhausted precision. I’ve watched trans patients get buried in the wrong clothes, with the wrong names on their headstones, because blood relatives overruled chosen family.

Fucking barbaric, Remy mutters, cigarette dangling from his lip like a promise of fire. His Cajun accent thickens when he’s angry, consonants softening into something that sounds almost gentle until you listen to the words. My mama died in her own bed, with me holding her hand, because she had the good sense to live in a community that let her die how she wanted. These fancy facilities with their activity calendars and their “wellness programs”— he spits the words like they taste spoiled —they want you to die convenient. Clean. Closeted.

Bubba’s massive hand covers Remy’s, their fingers intertwining with the ease of decades of practice. His deep voice rumbles through the basement like distant thunder.

We’ve been talking about this, he says, and the weight in his words suggests “this” has been keeping them both up at night. What happens when one of us can’t take care of the other anymore. What happens when we both can’t take care of ourselves.

There’s got to be options, Ezra says from their beanbag throne, finally breaking their silence. Queer senior housing exists, right? I’ve seen articles—

In San Francisco, Elaine cuts in. In LA. In a handful of cities that actually give a shit. She takes a long pull of her rum collins. You know how many LGBTQ-specific senior housing facilities exist in this entire fucking country? Fewer than three hundred. For millions of us who are getting old whether we like it or not.

Waitlists years long, Miranda adds, her voice carrying that particular poetry she brings to even the hardest truths. And most of them are in cities with costs of living that would bankrupt anyone who spent their career being discriminated against in employment. We didn’t get to build the retirement funds straight people take for granted. We didn’t get to inherit family wealth from people who disowned us for existing.

Della’s been listening from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, face wearing that particular expression that means she’s thinking hard about how to translate fury into action.

What about aging in place? she asks. Staying in your own home with support?

You mean hiring strangers to come into your house and maybe respect your identity, maybe call the cops because they think you’re a danger to yourself, maybe steal your shit because they know you’ve got no family to advocate for you? Elaine’s voice carries the weariness of someone who’s already researched every option and found them all wanting. I looked into it. Home care aides aren’t required to have any training on LGBTQ issues. You’re rolling dice every time someone new shows up to help you shower.

The Kansas fades into Pink Floyd—“Time” filling the basement with its ticking clocks and its relentless questions about where the years go. And then one day you find ten years have got behind you. Roger Waters sounds like he’s reading my mail.

Gizmo and I used to listen to this one, I hear myself say, and the memory ambushes me before I can armor against it. Driving to her piano lessons when she was maybe twelve. She asked me what the song was about, and I told her it was about growing up. My throat tightens. She said she never wanted to grow up if it meant feeling that sad about time.

Keira’s hand finds my thigh beneath the bar, anchoring me in the present while the past tries to pull me under.

And now she’s grown, Miranda says gently, and you’re the one feeling that sad about time.

Aren’t we all?

The basement settles into something contemplative. Miguel refills glasses without being asked, moving through the space with the particular attentiveness of someone who understands that sometimes tending bar means tending souls.

The thing that terrifies me, Lisa says slowly, her practical farm-girl voice carrying the weight of someone who’s been thinking about this since long before tonight, is losing myself before I ever really got to be myself. She stares into her drink—bourbon, from the color, something rich and amber. I spent fifty-some years being who everyone else needed me to be. Finally figured out who I actually am. And now I’m looking at maybe twenty, thirty years if I’m lucky, and half of that might be spent in some facility where they’ll try to shove me back into the box I just escaped.

Dementia, River says quietly. That’s what you’re really talking about.

Lisa nods, and something in her face looks younger and older simultaneously—the girl who never got to be herself and the woman who’s running out of time to make up for it.

My grandmother had it, Lisa continues. Spent her last years thinking she was still a young wife, still waiting for her husband to come home from work, still living in a world that made sense to her once. She takes a shaky breath. If that happens to me, will I forget that I finally figured out I was gay? Will I spend my last years confused about why there’s no husband, no kids, no life that looks like the one I was supposed to want?

Or will you remember who you really were, Miranda offers, her voice soft as candlelight, and be confused about why the world keeps trying to tell you otherwise?

Christ. Elaine drains her rum collins and signals Miguel for another. That’s not better.

No, Miranda agrees. It’s not.

Bubba shifts in his seat, and the movement draws attention the way his presence always does—tectonic plates rearranging themselves.

We’ve made plans, he says, and his voice carries the particular weight of declarations that have been tested and refined and tested again. Remy and me. Legal documents, medical powers of attorney, do-not-resuscitate orders, the whole beautiful bureaucratic nightmare. His weathered face holds something that might be peace if you squint at it right. But we’ve also made promises. To each other and to this family.

He gestures at the basement around him—the sunset crimson walls, the restored bar, all of us gathered in this underground sanctuary.

If it comes to it, we want to die here. In this community. Surrounded by people who know who we are and will remember us right.

That’s beautiful, Ezra says from their beanbag, but how does it actually work? Like, logistically?

Hospice, River answers, nurse-brain engaging with visible relief at having something concrete to contribute. Palliative care. It’s possible to die at home—or in a chosen family’s home—with medical support. It takes planning, takes resources, takes people willing to show up. But it’s possible.

And when you’re too sick to advocate for yourself? Lisa presses. When the doctors want to know who’s making decisions and your partner of thirty years doesn’t count because you never got the paperwork right?

That’s why you get the paperwork right, Keira says, her voice carrying steel beneath the calm. Healthcare proxy. Durable power of attorney. Advance directives that spell out exactly what you want and who speaks for you when you can’t. She squeezes my thigh. We did all of it years ago. Because we knew nobody would hand us the rights straight couples take for granted.

Even then, River cautions, it’s not foolproof. I’ve seen facilities ignore advance directives because family members threatened to sue. I’ve seen doctors defer to blood relatives over legal proxies because it was “easier.” Their voice carries exhaustion particular to medical professionals who’ve watched the system fail the people they’re supposed to help. The law says one thing. The practice says something else.

The Floyd fades into Supertramp—“Take the Long Way Home” filling the space with its contemplative piano and its questions about where we end up when the road gets long. Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe?

The thing is, Miranda says, and her voice carries the particular weight of someone who’s thought about this from angles most people never have to consider, for trans elders, it’s not just about whether they’ll respect your marriage or your end-of-life wishes. It’s about whether they’ll respect your body.

The basement goes quiet again. Even Della stops moving.

When I die, Miranda continues, her voice soft but unflinching, someone will have to handle my body. Wash it. Dress it. Prepare it for whatever comes next. Her eyes meet mine across the bar, and I see myself reflected in her fear. If that someone doesn’t see me as a woman—if they see my body as a curiosity, a mistake, something to be corrected—they could undo everything I’ve spent my whole life fighting for. They could bury me as someone I never was.

That’s not going to happen, Ezra says fiercely, blue hair practically vibrating with protective intensity. We won’t let it.

Sweet child, Miranda’s smile is sad and tender simultaneously. You’ll be fighting your own battles by then. The young always think they’ll be there to protect the old, until they’re the old and the young have their own dying to do.

Then we build systems, I hear myself say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel. We don’t leave it to chance. We don’t hope the next generation will be there. We create structures that outlast us.

The bourbon sits warm in my belly as ideas start forming—half-shaped, embryonic, but real.

What if we formalized it, I continue. Like a cooperative. A network of people who commit to being present for each other’s aging, each other’s dying. Who know each other’s wishes and will fight like hell to enforce them.

A death doula collective, River says slowly, something lighting behind their eyes. But specifically queer. Specifically trained in advocating for trans and LGBTQ people in medical settings.

Buddy systems for nursing home visits, Elaine adds, warming to the idea. So nobody’s alone when they’re vulnerable. So there’s always a witness who’ll raise hell if someone gets misgendered or mistreated.

Legal document clinics, Keira contributes. Making sure everyone has the paperwork they need, reviewed by lawyers who actually understand our issues.

A fucking phone tree, Della says from the kitchen doorway, so when someone lands in the hospital, we know about it before the biological family swoops in to claim a body that was never theirs to claim.

The energy is shifting now—from grief and fear to something that looks almost like hope. Bubba’s face has softened into something that might be relief. Lisa’s practical mind is visibly churning through logistics. Even Elaine’s armor has cracked enough to let something vulnerable peek through.

We’d need money, Lisa says, farmer pragmatism asserting itself. Training. Organization. It’s not a small thing.

No, I agree. But neither is dying alone and erased. Neither is watching the people you love disappear into systems designed to forget them.

Miguel’s been listening quietly, polishing glasses with that meditative attention he brings to everything. Now he speaks.

We’ve got the space, he says slowly. Not for housing, obviously, but for meetings. For training sessions. For whatever this becomes. He gestures at the basement around us. The Sanctuary’s already a safe space. Maybe it’s time to make it a safer future too.

Remy’s cigarette has burned down to ash, forgotten in the intensity of the conversation. He stubs it out and immediately lights another, the ritual as automatic as breathing.

My mama always said, his Cajun accent thick with memory, that dying was just the last thing you do for the people who love you. You die good, you teach them how to live with losing you. He exhales smoke toward the ceiling. She died so good, cher. Surrounded by people who knew her, who loved her, who would tell her stories for the rest of their lives. That’s what we’re talking about, non? Dying good. Dying known. Dying remembered right.

Yes, Miranda says, and her voice sounds like prayer. That’s exactly what we’re talking about.

The Supertramp fades into something softer—the sound system’s chaotic shuffle choosing mercy for once. The basement settles into contemplative quiet, each of us sitting with the weight of what we’ve discussed.

Death. Aging. Erasure. Resistance.

The same themes that have defined queer existence since before any of us were born, just wearing different costumes now. Instead of police raids and conversion therapy, it’s nursing homes and deadnames on death certificates. The violence changes shape but never disappears.

But neither do we.

I’m tired, Elaine admits, and for the first time tonight she sounds it—sixty years of fighting catching up with her all at once. I’m so fucking tired of having to plan for people to treat me like shit. Of having to build defenses against systems that should be taking care of me. Of being sixty years old and still not being able to trust that I’ll be treated with basic human dignity.

I know, Bubba rumbles, his deep voice carrying decades of the same exhaustion. But tired don’t mean done. Never has. We rest when we can and fight when we have to, and we hold each other up in between.

And we make plans, Lisa adds, that practical streak asserting itself. We make plans and we make backup plans and we make backup plans for the backup plans. Because we’ve never had the luxury of assuming things would work out.

Because we love each other, Miranda says softly. Because that’s what love actually is—not just the romantic bullshit, but the showing up. The planning. The promising to remember each other right.

Keira’s shoulder presses against mine, warm and solid. Across the room, Bubba and Remy have settled back into each other, decades of practice in the way their bodies interlock. Ezra’s pulled out their sketchbook now, probably capturing something about this moment that the rest of us won’t understand until we see it rendered in their particular vision. River’s face has shifted from exhaustion to something that might be purpose.

Miguel slides another Eagle Rare toward me, unbidden.

Same round for everyone, he says. On the house. Because some conversations deserve good bourbon.

The glasses fill with amber light. The basement holds us all—old and young, newly-out and decades-seasoned, healthy and aching and somewhere in between. The music plays on, shuffle choosing songs that sound like memory and prophecy simultaneously.

We don’t toast. That’s for special occasions, and this is just Tuesday—just another night at The Sanctuary, just another conversation about survival in a world designed to forget us.

But something has shifted. Something has been named and claimed and committed to.

We will age together. We will fight for each other’s dignity. We will remember each other right.

And when the time comes—as it always does, as it must—we will help each other die good.

That’s what family does. Even when the family wasn’t born. Even when the family was chosen, built, claimed from the wreckage of the families that failed us.

Especially then.

“One of the most courageous things we can do is to name what we have lost and what we hope to find.” — bell hooks

Hooks understood that love requires honesty, and honesty requires naming the hard things—the losses we carry, the fears we harbor, the futures we’re trying to build against terrible odds. Tonight we named it all: the facilities that would erase us, the systems designed to forget us, the particular terror of aging in bodies the world never quite learned to see correctly. But we also named what we hope to find—community that outlasts individual lifespans, structures that carry our wishes forward when we can no longer speak them, the particular grace of dying known and remembered right. Loss and hope, tangled together like Bubba and Remy’s fingers, like every queer love story ever told. The courage isn’t in pretending the loss doesn’t exist. The courage is in loving anyway, in building anyway, in making plans for futures we might not live to see because someone will, and they deserve better than we got.

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