The basement felt heavier tonight, like grief had settled into the brick walls alongside the decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of crimson paint could fully mask. I descended those familiar steps with the weight of the day pressing against my shoulders, each footfall echoing in the narrow stairwell like a funeral march. The faded rainbow sticker on the door seemed dimmer somehow, as if even it mourned what we'd lost.
Inside, the warm lighting that usually embraced us felt muted, casting longer shadows between the mismatched furniture. The sound system crackled to life with Kansas' "Dust in the Wind," Steve Walsh's haunting vocals floating through the heavy air like whispered prayers, the melancholic guitar perfectly capturing the fragility of existence that grief always forced us to confront.
Miguel looked up from behind the restored bar top, his dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion that went bone-deep. The kid—though at thirty-two he wasn't really a kid anymore—had been carrying this weight since morning, when the news broke about Dorothy. Seventy-eight years old, our fierce dragon of an ally who'd been fighting for queer rights since before Stonewall, dead from a stroke in her sleep. No warning, no goodbye, just gone like smoke dissipating into the night.
Hey Mom, he said, his usually sultry voice roughened by unshed tears. Figured you'd need something stronger than usual tonight.
Without asking, he reached for the bottle of Maker's Mark, the amber liquid catching the light like liquid fire as he poured three fingers into a rocks glass. The bourbon hit the crystal with a soft clink that somehow sounded like a bell tolling, and the scent of vanilla and oak rose between us like incense in a church of the broken-hearted.
Fuck, Miguel, I said, accepting the glass with hands that trembled just slightly. I keep thinking she's gonna walk through that door and call us all a bunch of pussy-ass crybabies for mourning her.
A bitter laugh escaped him, the sound catching in his throat. She'd probably order a shot of Jameson and tell us to quit our fucking whining.
Across the room, Ezra sat curled in their beanbag chair like a wounded bird, blue hair falling across their face in waves that matched the melancholy now filling our space. They'd been Dorothy's particular favorite, the old broad always slipping them twenty-dollar bills and advice about standing up to anyone who tried to dim their shine. Tonight, they looked smaller somehow, diminished by the absence of that fierce protective energy.
I don't know how to do this, Ezra whispered, their voice barely audible over the music. She was like... she was our fucking warrior, you know? How do you grieve someone who taught you how to fight?
Bubba shifted in his corner booth, his massive frame somehow managing to look graceful despite the weight he carried both physically and emotionally. The man had survived being black and gay in rural Georgia during the seventies and eighties, had buried more friends than any human should have to, and yet Dorothy's death had cracked something open in him that he usually kept locked away.
Child, he said, his deep Southern drawl wrapping around the words like velvet around broken glass, Dorothy didn't teach us how to fight. She taught us how to love so goddamn hard that fighting became inevitable.
The kitchen erupted in the sharp sizzle of onions hitting hot oil, and I could hear Della muttering curses that would make a sailor blush as she worked out her grief through violent food preparation. She'd been making comfort food all day—mac and cheese that could resurrect the dead, cornbread that tasted like home, and now what smelled like her grandmother's famous jambalaya. Grief cooking, she called it, and Della treated it like a sacred ritual.
Phoenix appeared from behind the bar carrying a pitcher of ice water, their constantly changing hair now a deep purple that seemed appropriate for mourning. The kid had been living with Keira and me for months now, and Dorothy had taken them under her wing with the fierce protectiveness of a mama bear. The ruby ring on their finger caught the light as they moved, River's promise of permanence glinting like hope in the darkness.
She came to see me in the hospital, Phoenix said quietly, setting the pitcher down with careful precision. After the beating. Brought me this book about queer elders and said I needed to know my history, know who came before. She made me promise to keep fighting, even when it felt impossible.
Especially when it felt impossible, Keira added from her spot at the bar, her voice carrying that subtle strength that always grounded me. She'd arrived just before me, still wearing her work clothes but somehow managing to look like she belonged in this underground world of misfits and rebels. Dorothy didn't believe in giving up. Said every day we stayed visible was a victory.
The door opened with its familiar squeak, admitting a stranger who immediately looked like she regretted her decision. Tall, athletic build that spoke of hours spent perfecting a golf swing, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that had probably started the day neat but now showed signs of stress-induced tugging. She moved with the careful precision of someone who overthought every step, every gesture, every breath.
Uh, is this... I mean, I saw the rainbow sticker... she started, her voice carrying the particular nervousness of someone stepping into unfamiliar territory.
Before any of us could respond, Renee unfolded herself from the shadows near the pool table like a goddamn Amazon warrior rising from slumber. Six feet of pure muscle and fierce lesbian energy, she approached the newcomer with the confident stride of someone who'd never met a challenge she couldn't muscle through.
First time? Renee asked, her voice carrying both challenge and invitation. You look like you could use a drink and maybe some company that won't judge you for whatever brought you to our little corner of hell.
The stranger—Claire, she introduced herself—nodded with the jerky movements of someone fighting internal battles. I heard about Dorothy. Didn't know her personally, but... she helped my ex-girlfriend come out about ten years ago. Thought maybe I should...
Pay respects, Renee finished, understanding immediately. Dorothy collected people like some folks collect stamps. Probably touched more lives than she ever knew.
Claire's shoulders relaxed slightly, some tension bleeding out of her athletic frame. I'm not good at this kind of thing. Feelings, I mean. I usually just hit golf balls until the problem goes away.
Shit, honey, Renee laughed, a sound like whiskey and honey over broken glass, half the people in here solve their problems by beating the fuck out of inanimate objects. You'll fit right in.
The sound system shifted to Asia's "Only Time Will Tell" and I felt my chest tighten as Freddie's voice filled the space with longing and hope. Gizmo and I used to sing this one in the car, her young voice harmonizing with mine as we drove through suburban streets that never quite felt like home. Now my eighteen-year-old daughter barely spoke to me, psychology textbooks more interesting than her trans mother's attempts at connection.
Mom's got that look, Miguel observed, sliding another bourbon across the bar top. The one that means she's thinking about Gizmo again.
I didn't deny it, just took a sip of bourbon that burned like truth going down. Grief was a funny fucking thing—it could sneak up on you through a song, a smell, a stranger's nervous laugh. Tonight it felt like everything was connected to loss, to the absence of people who should be here but weren't.
Julie appeared from the bathroom, her seventy-one years evident in the careful way she navigated the uneven floor. She'd been nursing the same Diet Coke and Macallan combination for an hour, probably convinced the diet soda would somehow counteract the whiskey calories. Her long-divorced ass had learned to distrust men but embrace our chaotic chosen family with the fierce love of someone who'd finally found her tribe.
Dorothy would be pissed if she knew we were sitting here being all mopey, Julie announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone who'd survived seven decades of bullshit. That woman lived her entire life giving the finger to anyone who told her to sit down and shut up.
So what do we do? Phoenix asked, their young voice heavy with the weight of loss they were still learning to carry. How do we honor someone like that?
Bubba straightened in his booth, his presence suddenly filling more space as he prepared to share something important. In the South, we used to have these things called homegoing celebrations. Not funerals, but celebrations of a life well-lived. Dorothy didn't just live, children. She fucking thrived in a world that tried to kill her spirit every single day.
Della emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with steaming bowls of jambalaya that smelled like heaven and heartbreak. Her femme butch energy radiated determination as she began distributing food with the efficiency of someone who understood that feeding people was its own form of love.
She used to come in here every third Thursday, Della said, setting a bowl in front of Ezra with careful gentleness. Always ordered the same thing—grilled cheese and tomato soup, like she was eight years old instead of seventy-eight. Said it reminded her of when she was a kid and her grandmother was the only person who didn't think she was broken.
The jambalaya was perfect, of course—rice tender but not mushy, sausage with just enough heat to make your eyes water, flavors that danced on your tongue like a jazz funeral in New Orleans. Comfort food that tasted like home, even for those of us who'd never had a real one.
I want to tell stories, Ezra said suddenly, their voice stronger now, fueled by Della's cooking and our collective presence. Not the sanitized bullshit they'll put in her obituary, but the real stories. Like how she once told off a preacher who was protesting Pride, called him a limp-dicked excuse for a Christian right in front of his congregation.
Laughter rippled through the space, the first genuine sound of joy we'd managed all day. Claire looked startled by the sudden shift in energy, but Renee leaned closer, explaining in low tones how grief worked in queer spaces—messy, complicated, full of anger and love and fierce celebration of lives lived authentically.
She funded my top surgery, Phoenix said quietly, their hand unconsciously moving to their chest. Wouldn't take no for an answer, said she'd been saving money for something important and helping me become who I was meant to be qualified as important.
Paid for my divorce lawyer, Julie added, raising her glass in a mock toast. Said any woman brave enough to leave a man after forty years of marriage deserved the best legal representation money could buy.
The stories flowed like the bourbon Miguel kept pouring, each one adding another layer to the complex portrait of a woman who'd lived her entire life as an act of rebellion. Dorothy the activist, Dorothy the surrogate grandmother, Dorothy the fierce protector of anyone society tried to marginalize.
The music shifted to Queensryche's "Silent Lucidity," and I felt tears threaten as Geoff Tate's voice filled the space with longing. Another song Gizmo and I used to share, back when she was small enough to sit on my lap and young enough to think I had all the answers.
This is how we do it, Keira said softly, her hand briefly touching my shoulder in a gesture so subtle anyone watching might have missed it. We tell the stories, we feed each other, we make sure her spirit lives on in how we treat the people who come after.
Claire had been listening with the intense focus of someone trying to understand a foreign language, but now she spoke up, her voice hesitant but determined. I've been out for ten years, but I've never... I've never had this. Community, I mean. People who get it.
Renee's smile was soft around the edges, a rare vulnerability showing through her usual armor of muscle and attitude. Dorothy used to say that coming out wasn't a one-time thing. Said you had to keep choosing your truth every single day, and sometimes that meant finding new places to be yourself.
Like finding your people, Claire said, understanding dawning in her eyes.
Like coming home, Phoenix corrected gently.
The basement had filled with the complicated energy of grief being processed collectively—tears and laughter and anger all mixing together like ingredients in one of Della's perfect recipes. This was how queer people mourned, I realized. We didn't follow traditional scripts about flowers and formal speeches. We told the truth about loss, about love, about the fierce bonds that held our chosen families together.
Ezra had moved from their beanbag chair to sit cross-legged on the floor near the center of the room, blue hair catching the warm light as they spoke. Dorothy taught me that being visible wasn't just about being seen. It was about making space for the people coming behind you.
Making space, Bubba repeated thoughtfully. That's what she did, wasn't it? Made space for all of us broken-beautiful creatures to exist.
Miguel wiped down the bar top with movements that bordered on reverent, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears. He and Della had built this place as a sanctuary, but Dorothy had been one of the first to understand what they were trying to create. She'd blessed their union before they were legally allowed to marry, had helped them navigate the paperwork and permits and prejudice that came with running a queer business in a world that still wanted them invisible.
She left money, Della said suddenly, her voice thick with emotion. Her lawyer called this afternoon. Left money to expand the kitchen, said she wanted to make sure we could feed more lost souls.
The silence that followed was heavy with meaning. Dorothy's final act of love, ensuring that our sanctuary could continue to nourish the people who needed it most.
Jesus fucking Christ, Julie muttered, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. That manipulative old broad is still taking care of us from beyond the grave.
Claire laughed, a sound of surprise and recognition. She sounds like she was something else.
She was everything, Phoenix said simply.
The sound system had moved on to Marika's "Toy Soldiers," Christine McVie's warm vocals filling the space with gentle encouragement about looking toward tomorrow, the rhythm somehow managing to be both mournful and hopeful—perfect for a community learning to carry loss while still moving forward.
Renee had gradually moved closer to Claire throughout the evening, their conversation becoming more intimate as the night wore on. I watched them navigate the careful dance of two people recognizing something familiar in each other—the loneliness of being strong, the exhaustion of always having to prove yourself worthy of space in a world that questioned your right to exist.
You play golf professionally? Renee asked, genuine interest replacing her usual challenge-the-world attitude.
Trying to, Claire admitted. It's hard being out in that world. Lots of old money, old attitudes. I overthink everything, worry about every interaction, every tournament. Dorothy's ex-girlfriend told me about this place, said it might help to be around people who understand.
Understand that being queer is both the hardest and most beautiful thing about us, Renee said softly.
The conversation continued in low tones, but I could see something shifting between them—recognition, possibility, the tentative hope of connection. Renee had spent years being the woman who could steal wives from their husbands but couldn't find happiness for herself. Maybe Claire, with her nervous energy and overthinking brain, was exactly what she needed.
The evening wound down with the natural rhythm of grief being processed collectively. Miguel announced last call, though he'd probably stay open as long as anyone needed to keep talking. Della had cleaned the kitchen with the therapeutic violence that only cooking for grieving people could provide. Phoenix and Keira had started a quiet conversation about memorial plans, ways to honor Dorothy's memory that would have made the old broad proud.
As the others began to filter out into the night, Claire lingered near the bar, clearly reluctant to return to whatever empty apartment or hotel room awaited her. Renee stood nearby, their body language suggesting an invitation that hadn't quite been spoken aloud.
You don't have to figure it all out tonight, Renee said gently. Grief's a process, not a destination. So is finding your people.
Is that what this is? Claire asked. Finding my people?
Finding yourself, I interjected, setting my empty glass on the bar top with a soft clink. The people are just the bonus.
Miguel poured one final round, the Maker's Mark flowing like liquid amber in the warm light. We raised our glasses in a moment of silent acknowledgment—not a toast, exactly, but a recognition of what we'd shared. Grief transformed into something manageable through the alchemy of chosen family, love made visible through the simple act of witnessing each other's pain.
Dorothy would have liked tonight, Miguel said finally.
Dorothy would have liked seeing Renee work up the courage to flirt, Della added with a grin that broke the solemnity of the moment.
Renee blushed, actually blushed, the color rising in her cheeks like sunrise after a long night. Claire smiled back with the shy warmth of someone discovering they might not be as alone as they'd thought.
The basement emptied slowly, people carrying pieces of Dorothy's spirit out into the world like seeds waiting to bloom in unexpected places. Keira and I were among the last to leave, our footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell as we climbed toward street level.
Outside, the night air felt crisp against skin still warm from the basement's embrace. The city continued its relentless motion around us, but we carried the sanctuary's peace like armor against the world's casual cruelties.
Good night, I said to the darkness, to Dorothy's spirit, to the complicated beauty of loving people you can't protect from time's inevitable erosion.
In the distance, I could hear the sound of laughter—Renee and Claire, walking slowly toward whatever came next. New connections forming in the space left by loss, life insisting on continuation despite death's interruptions.
Grief, I realized, wasn't just about saying goodbye. In queer spaces, it was about saying hello to the parts of ourselves that only emerged when witnessed by people who understood the cost of authenticity. We mourned our elders not just for who they were, but for who they'd allowed us to become.
"Grief is the price we pay for love." - Queen Elizabeth II
Dorothy's death reminded us that grief isn't something to be cured or overcome—it's love with nowhere to go, seeking new channels through which to flow. Tonight, we discovered those channels in shared stories, in Della's fierce cooking, in the tentative connection forming between Renee and Claire. We honored Dorothy not by forgetting our pain, but by transforming it into continued acts of love and acceptance. Her legacy lives in every newcomer we welcome, every story we tell, every moment we choose compassion over isolation. Grief became our teacher, showing us that the depth of our mourning equals the magnitude of our capacity to love.
Pure beauty.
Now I walk in beauty
Beauty is before me
Beauty is behind me
Above and below me