Dear Danielle

e don't know if you realize it, Danielle. But when you were a baby, you saved my life. When you were born in 1996 I had already moved to the woods of Granville to die a 26 years old. I have been living with AIDS for three years,

and my doctors told me there was a good chance that I'd be dead within two years. Grendel was full of stories like mine. Hundreds of gay men had moved from the Bay Area and the worst years of the AIDS epidemic to the serenity of the redwoods

and the Russian River to live out their last days. But what was different about me and my story was you After you were born, your mom needed to get back to work in Sebastopol and needed someone to watch you while she was working. Despite the utter

wreck my life had become, I was given that honor. You changed to me, sweetie. You turn the disaster of my life into something hopeful. You gave me a reason to be alive and to reclaim my future. How did you do that? It was so simple and

so profound. You accepted me just the way I waas. You're guileless. Affection restored me to who I really am, who I always was meant to be I felt loved and whole. For the first time since I was diagnosed bit by bit my Solnit itself back together.

New medicines were introduced the same year you were born That turned the course of the entire epidemic around and gave hope to all of us who were living with HIV that we could have our futures back. 20 years later, I've reclaimed my life and I've devoted

it to helping other people. Thanks to you, I'm capable of loving myself. And so I can also love others. You've had your own struggles, my sweet. That's your own story to tell. But I want you to understand what you taught me so well back when you

were a little baby. You're perfect. Exactly the way you are. It What? No. Okay,