Hans

This is Hans, my first boyfriend, in a picture taken in June of 1973. His full name was Hans-Jurgen Hugo Albert Kruger, named for an uncle who committed suicide. He is standing in my Mom's kitchen, all dressed up for our high school graduation. He was the only guy who wore a tux. He had beautiful long auburn hair. Sometimes people would come up to him and tell him he looked like John Lennon, especially in profile. He was a very intelligent guy, who read H. P. Lovecraft, believed in life on other planets, was very musical but wrote extremely bad poetry. If I was upset about something he would rock me in a certain way that would make me fall asleep. He spoke German - it was his first language. He died in June of 1974, just before his 20th birthday in August, a couple of months after we found out my Mom had terminal cancer. She died in September that year. I had just finished my first year at university; he dropped out to go out to British Columbia. He came back in the spring and got sick. He had started using needles and got hepatitis.

I thought of him today, after seeing the end of the movie Castaway with Tom Hanks. I used to dream that he would come to me, after I had married Mike, and be angry, saying things like, "I only go away for a year - five years - ten years - and you go off and marry some other guy! What's wrong with you?" He would never have a really good explanation for where he had been, but in the dream it would make sense.

We were almost opposites: he was musical (piano and guitar), I was artistic; he was more athletic, I was a klutz; he had travelled, I had not been anywhere; he was a Leo, I was Aquarius. He used more drugs, more often; I was nervous. We used to argue about things, after he got over feeling so lucky to be with me (he was a geek). He brought out something contrary in me that just had to play devil's advocate. He had a beautiful swimmer's physique: broad shoulders, strong arms, slim waist. He was a lifeguard and also taught swimming at the YMCA. He skied and sailed. We went swimming and camping together; our favourite spot was Lake Metigoshe in North Dakota.

There is nothing of him on the internet - he died before these things were invented. I just want him to be remembered somewhere. When he died, he was cremated, so there is no marker anywhere. I have a couple of letters, that's about it. I have his pitch pipe. I am sure that if we meet again somewhere, we will laugh and ask, "What were we thinking?" He won't be angry with me. We will still be fond of each other. I think he has continued his growth elsewhere. Sometimes people who die young seem to have been so thirsty for life, as if they just knew their hours were limited.

I've forgotten most of the German I learned with him, but not him. And here he is, and I hope people see him.