(sinto sua falta)

I wrote them a thank-you limerick in September of 2008, after I had spent 5 nights on their squashy futon, within the sunny enclosure of their garden apartment. They made me cream cheese pizzas and guacamole, and I made them eggplant Parmesan and zucchini stuffed with Gorgonzola, and we sat beneath their twinkle lights under a fuzzy New York sky. There was a moment, I remember, with Jeni and Joe across the table from me, a bottle of Merlot between us, during that initial visit, that I knew that I wanted to move to New York. Brooklyn, actually. It just had to happen, it was obvious. This would be my home, they would be my home. Jeni wondered how our paths hadn’t crossed any earlier, and I laughed and told her that two years prior I’d swaggered into their wedding at Villa Terrace quite late and so was ushered into the front row, right next to all the grandparents. Then we realized that all three of us were Scorpios and all hell broke loose, clawing at each other with our pincers and whatnot.

The morning before I stepped out into the swinging streets of the city, my stomach tied up at twisted, Joe and I had coffee, he told me to walk up to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and have a peek at what I’m about to dive into head first, and he gave me brand new copies of the NFT. He told me only real New Yorkers carry this around, and so I did. Now, nearly two years later, the pages have become soft from wear, corners dog-eared and the black covers faded.

As I wandered through small, sagging apartments and tall, scraping high-rises in search of my own apartment, I became discouraged. Either it was perfect but too expensive or just the right price and I would get whistled and hollered at every time I walked in the front door. I almost left for home without an apartment nailed down, trying to imagine how long Joe and Jeni would let me stay on their futon, when their broker pedaled by on her bike, and Joe shouted to her, asking about any openings in the area. She yelled back in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Come to my office in an hour.” Five hours later, I’d signed a lease for a sunny one-bedroom in Cobble Hill. A few weeks later, after he stood in my brother’s wedding, Joe helped me move the heavy stuff around 99 Butler, and took me out to celebrate. Jeni became an instant sister to me, helped me paint my living room walls pumpkin orange, gave me beautiful jewelry to adorn my earlobes and fingers with, helped me become my New York self.

Months and weeks passed, season toppled over season, and we became somewhat of a band. I watched Joe perform a heart-wrenching rendition of this gem, and I sang a duet or two with Jeni. With a winning combination of cartwheels and accordions, our performances outweighed any Blue Man Group concert. And they even let me wear their Christmas bird as a hat once or twice.

They were there when I won the bags tournament at Union Hall, and there to help me distribute small farm animal toys to Janeane Garofalo when we met her outside of her show. They were there with me at the Iron & Wine concert at Terminal Five. They were there when I needed to laugh and cry and they were there to count my push-ups, and to encourage me to do more. They met Mark when I was in love and they loved him too. They met Peter when I was in love and they loved him too. And then they immediately hated them both when my loves broke me down. They were there when I got my first real job and loved it and then were there to hear about it when it wasn’t quite so nice. Presidential Debates, Superbowls, Thanksgivings, Packer games, triple-threat birthday parties, new babies and engagements in Wisconsin, they’ve danced me through it all.

Instead of blathering on about the bygone memories of my Jeni and Joe, what needs to be said is that these two masters of charisma and jazz have completely changed me, and brought me into their lives with a kind of openness that only comes with family. Anyone who knows them knows what I’m talking about, and anybody who doesn’t know them, well, you’ll have to tumble with the tumbleweeds on over to Santa Fe, where their next great adventure is about to commence.


In Portuguese, the literal translation of the phrase “I miss you” (sinto sua falta) is “I feel your absence.” I can already feel the hole in my life where Joe and Jeni were, and I have a feeling I’ll be texting this phrase to my New Mexican friends often, almost as often as I’ll be sleeping on their adobe futon in Santa Fe.