Everything is Just Happening.

by Laurie Wagner | Apr 13, 2026 | Blog | 19 comments

Everything is just happening

Paul died in his sleep last week – that’s what Cynthia texted. He would have wanted that, but of course no one – not his kids – his former wife, Cynthia or me and the people who loved him got to say goodbye. And what do you say, anyway? You just want people to know you loved them, that this journey of theirs, alive on earth, mattered because we saw you, and you let us touch you.

I have thought of Paul throughout the week. Ron said he was the funniest guy I’d ever meet, but I wasn’t interested in that, the part that wanted to keep the ball in the air, keep me entertained and laughing. I appreciate some levity – I need it to counter my double Taurus nature – but to get close to someone I also need some silence, to make a space where we don’t need to talk, where we can feel what connects us without the party of conversation. That was harder for Paul who was such a showman, but we found it, mostly in the dark.

The last time I saw him a few months ago, we walked the park and then went to a place that seemed to cater to a quieter crowd with its 6pm dinner plate specials. I came down with Covid the next day and worried since he was 13 years older than me and had eaten off my plate, but Paul was strong like that, and he laughed it off. He used to tell me that he didn’t care if he ran out of money, he knew how to shoot and skin squirrel, that he’d be fine.

Paul is the third important lover of mine to die. Brian, who I’d met at 25, died of ALS. Todd died a few years ago, “and I’m leaving too,” Mark reminds me.

That quiet I spoke of, I like it now more than ever. The other day, co-working here at the house with my 28-year-old, Zoe, there was a moment on the couch where we both lay back onto the pillows and neither of us spoke.I wondered if we had the kind of intimacy and tolerance for that. I wondered who would speak first, but neither of us did, we just lay there, our heads together on a pillow in the late afternoon saying nothing.

And what might we say?

I love you, I’m sorry. Which covers a lot, and will often seem inadequate, especially when you’re with your children. I’m sorry about the world we’re leaving you, I’m sorry I wasn’t as in tune with what you needed when you were small. I’m sorry I didn’t work out my body dysmorphia before I had you and Ruby. I hope I taught you something about love, about apology and beginning again.

Everything all of it. The dream I had last night where I’m in a quiet embrace with a man. We’re breathing together and it’s healing. Nothing else is needed. Just like the hug I had with Mark last night, and how he said we needed to hug as much as we could since he’ll be leaving for good in less than two months, how even after 37 years with someone, a hug can say it’s all. It’s enough.

In the phone call with Cynthia she told me how Paul had died – it was his heart, wouldn’t you know? That big muscular organ of his that he extended to practically everyone. He liked being helpful and he loved women. “Well aren’t you something,” he would say, shaking his head. “Aren’t you something.”

In memory of

Paul Robert Hurley

April 17. 1947 – March 26th, 2026