“To be remembered, to have one’s name spoken—these are the most powerful things anyone can hope for.“

–Paul Monette (1945–1995; award-winning gay author, poet, and activist. His 1988 Borrowed Time: An AIDS Memoir was one of the first memoirs to document the AIDS crisis from a personal, unflinching perspective.)

Cercis canadensis—or Redbud, as we call it here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia—is blooming now, as April unfurls, splashing the forest with an unmistakable purple that defies subtlety. Not pink. Not lavender. But a wild, jubilant purple that dares the bare trees around it to remember what life feels like. Its blossoms don’t wait for leaves, and they don’t hide behind foliage. They burst straight from the bark, bold and tender all at once—like a memory that insists on being remembered.

They seem more magnificent this year, tugging at my heart more fiercely than ever before, making David’s words ring out above his gentle whisper:

“When the Redbuds bloom, remember me.”

David and I knew one another decades ago at the Library of Congress where we both worked in the United States Copyright Office. When we first met, David was a Cataloger, and I was a Technical Support Specialist and then Copyright Training Coordinator. We were hello-in-passing colleagues.

Later, a close and unexpected bond developed between us. I became the Library of Congress Intern Director, coordinating a 9-month program that brought together a dozen or so highly talented librarians from within the Library and across the nation, providing them with an in-depth understanding of the library’s collections, its services, and its management infrastructure.

Sitting in my office about two weeks before the program’s start, I looked up and saw David standing there. After I congratulated him on being selected for that year’s Intern class, he gave me a troubled look:

“Thanks. Can we talk?”

“Of course. Come on in.”

He closed the door as he entered. He sat down, sighed, and shot me another look that to this day remains in my memory as one of existential angst:

“I have AIDS.”

My reply hung in the air, like eternity:

“I’m so sorry.”

What else could I have said? It was 1985. Even though AIDS (Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome) was generally known to most Americans, as it spread within the gay community, it started making its way to sensational articles in national newspapers, leaving all of us–especially in the gay community–terror stricken.

● 37% in Poll Say AIDS Altered Their Attitude to Homosexuals

● Saliva Discounted as an AIDS Threat

● More and More AIDS Cases Found Among Drug Users

● Panel Disagrees Over AIDS Risk for Public

● Grim New Ravage of AIDS: Brain Damage

● Rock Hudson, Screen Idol, Dies at 59

I had read those articles and more, but they had not prepared me for this moment.

Sitting across the desk from me was not Rock Hudson. Not a brain-ravaged AIDS person. Not a drug user. Not any of the things that I had read about.

Sitting across the desk from me was my friend David. David, poised at a high point in his career. David, diagnosed with AIDS. David. Death.

Before my three words had reached David’s ears, I walked around to where he sat. As I stretched out my arms, David stood to receive my embrace. Each knowing that friends stand for friends. Each knowing that friends stand with friends.

“I don’t know what to do?”

“About what?”

“About starting the Intern program.”

I knew the answer that I was about to give David was true. It had nothing to do with being gay. Nothing to do with AIDS. It had everything to do with being. Everything to do with living.

“I don’t have a magic ball, David, but it seems to me that as you face unknown health issues, a structured program like this might just be the anchor that you need.”

“But what about my fellow interns?”

David was well aware that for the next nine months, we would all share a small classroom–with top library officials appearing and making presentations throughout the day. It was close quarters. It was rigorous. It was intense.

He was also well aware of the public reaction to AIDS. Fear was thick in the air—fear of infection, fear of proximity, even fear within the gay community itself. At one point, some wondered whether poppers had caused the epidemic.

“I don’t know how your fellow Interns will react, but I’d urge you to stick with the program. I’ll be with you every day, and I’ll have your back.”

David left my office, leaving each of us with lots to think about.

For David, thinking about whether to continue with the program or let a disease with an unknown trajectory–other than eventual death–take charge of his life and spirit.

For me, thinking about navigating the months ahead while remembering that I was directing the most prestigious Library Intern program in the nation.

Two weeks passed. No word from David. Hopeful, I went ahead and made his name tent, stacking it with the others. As I stood at the door, greeting each of the Interns, I saw David walking my way:

“Let’s do it!”

And do it, we did, for a succession of days strung together like a strand of survival pearls. Then, one day, just before we were breaking for lunch, David asked whether he could share something with his classmates.

I knew what was coming. I knew, too, that anyone with something to share knows better than anyone else not only when to share but also how to share.

David shared his news with them as bluntly as he had shared it with me, but his existential angst had softened, perhaps in the hope that a burden shared would become a burden lessened.

I watched each face in the room. I listened to every word. To every breath between the words. One by one, each Intern summoned courage to offer consolation, support, hope, and help. When the last among them had offered all they had to give, one spoke again, laying one thing more upon love’s altar:

“Let’s have lunch brought in so we can all stay here together. Today. With David.”

We did.

The spirit that shone around the room that day continued to shine upon us day after day, month after month, all the way through a triumphant Intern graduation with David as one of our speakers.

David and his fellow Interns proved themselves to be a class beyond measure.

Where many people spoke of separation, the Interns spoke of inclusion.

Where many people chose to remain socially ignorant, the Interns chose to embrace information as power.

Where many people practiced discrimination, the Interns practiced acceptance.

I like to think that all of us rose to the occasion. We did. At the same time, I know that it was David who helped us rise higher than we ever imagined simply because we were not trying to rise. We were just trying to be … ourselves. We were just trying to let him be … himself.

In David, we did not see the face of AIDS.

In David, we saw the face of humanity.

In David, we saw the face of ourselves.

In David, we saw the depth of our empathy.

In David, we saw the things that each of us valued most.

In David, we saw opportunities to be more present, to say “I love you” more, and to recalibrate the course of our own lives.

In David, we saw the face of our own mortality, our fears of not having lived fully, of leaving things unsaid, and of being forgotten.

Through David and with David, we grappled with all of those grave issues–spoken and unspoken–confident of being fellow travelers on a shared journey.

Through David, with the arrival of every new spring since–now numbering forty–I am wrapt by redbuds of remembrance.