A lamp post rises skyward, holding both light and history. Draped below it, a flag—vivid in its colors, unapologetic in its presence—flutters against a summer sky. It is not just fabric. It is not merely decoration. It is a declaration.

Each June, Pride Month arrives not as a novelty, but as a necessary reminder: we are here. We have always been here. And we are not going away.
​
To live authentically in this world—especially in the face of hatred, erasure, and misunderstanding—is an act of courage. Pride is more than parades and festivities. It is a deep affirmation of self. It is the ability to stand tall in your own skin and say: This is who I am. I am enough.

To accept oneself is to step into the fullness of being human. Not a curated version for safety or approval, but the whole, radiant truth. That kind of self-acceptance radiates outward, inviting others to do the same. And when people live openly and truthfully, the world changes—one life at a time.

The journey to this moment has been long and layered. The shadows of Stonewall still flicker across our collective memory. The aching grief of the AIDS epidemic remains etched in hearts and histories. We have marched. We have danced. We have buried friends. We have married. We have held hands in joy and in protest. We have come out—to families, to communities, to ourselves. Through tears and celebration, we have witnessed the arc of history bend—however slowly—toward justice and love.

In the early days, the gathering places were often hidden, controlled, coded. Twin City gin joints lit by neon but marked by fear. Then came the open arms and bright streets of San Francisco—its rainbow crosswalks and painted murals a kind of sanctuary. And now, for many, a quieter chapter: a peaceful life in the woods, where reflection grows like wildflowers and gratitude arrives with the morning sun.

We remember because we must. Not only for ourselves, but for the generations still to come. Young people just learning the language of love and identity need to know: you are not alone. You are beautiful. You are worthy. Your truth is not a burden—it is your brilliance.

Yes, there are voices that still seek to silence, laws that try to erase, forces that thrive on fear. But against them stand countless lives, lived openly and honestly, shining like the light atop that streetlamp. We are not going backward. We are not hiding. And we are never going away.

Dr. Wayne Dyer once said, “An attitude of gratitude allows us to adopt the radical humility that’s very persuasive in helping others connect with the Spirit that unites us all.” In that spirit, Pride becomes more than a celebration—it becomes a sacred honoring. Of all who came before. Of all who are still here. Of all who are yet to bloom.

To live in gratitude is to remember: even in struggle, there is beauty. Even in silence, a song. Even in the darkest hour, a light still shines.

And so we raise our flags—bold, brilliant, brave. Not just for ourselves. But for the promise of a world where everyone can be exactly who they are: fully human, wholly seen, deeply loved.
​
"I am human, and nothing human can be alien to me."  ~Maya Angelou

~Wylddane



​

San Francisco, June 28

The fog had lifted by late morning, revealing the sun-drenched, rainbow-draped streets of the Castro. Pride flags fluttered from every window, crosswalks blazed with color, and the neighborhood pulsed with music, laughter, and the unmistakable scent of freedom.

Jake, Sam, Billy, Dominic, Hal, and Mike tumbled out of their B&B on 17th Street—an old Victorian with creaky floors, floral wallpaper, and a kindly lesbian couple named Linda and Sharon who ran it with military precision and bottomless mimosas.

“We’ve only been in San Francisco twelve hours,” Billy said, adjusting his sunglasses, “and I’ve already cried twice, flirted with a drag queen named Drought-Tolerant Dahlia, and been offered glitter in a tube.”

Sam grinned. “Welcome to Pride.”

They started their crawl at The Lookout, perched above Market Street with its breezy balcony and panoramic people-watching. They sipped pineapple jalapeño margaritas while cheering on dancers in harnesses and body glitter below.

“This place is like a caffeinated gay bird sanctuary,” Hal observed, watching as a man in a Speedo and angel wings flitted past.

Next up: Beaux, where the music was louder, the lights more strobe-heavy, and the go-go boys defied gravity and basic physics. Mike, normally reserved, found himself pulled into a dance circle by a man in thigh-high boots and a mesh shirt.

“Oh god,” Mike laughed breathlessly, “I’ve peaked. This is it. Everything after this is downhill.”

Jake leaned in toward Sam. “Not downhill. Just... down Castro Street.”

By the time they made it to Badlands, things had gotten delightfully fuzzy. Billy and Dominic were deep in an earnest debate over whether Cher or Madonna had contributed more to queer culture. Someone handed them matching rainbow fans. Hal disappeared briefly and returned with a temporary tattoo that read “Yas Queen” across his forearm.

As the sun began to slip toward the horizon, they wandered down to The Mix on 18th Street—a low-key, unpretentious neighborhood bar nestled between a taqueria and a vintage bookstore.

Inside, it was dark and cozy, the kind of place where the jukebox still mattered and nobody judged your drink order. The boys grabbed beers and took turns playing pool while Stevie Nicks crooned through the speakers. Out back, the patio was strung with fairy lights and the smell of grilled burgers wafted through the warm evening air.

Jake nursed a beer while leaning against Sam, their knees touching under the picnic table. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam said, eyes soft. “But this—today—this is kind of perfect.”

Nearby, Billy was trying to explain Wisconsin-style Old Fashioneds to a bartender who clearly did not believe in muddled fruit. Hal had befriended a pug named Harvey Milkshake. Mike and Dominic were laughing over photos from the day, all arms-around-shoulders and flushed with joy.

A cheer rose from inside as someone sank the eight ball. Music throbbed faintly beneath the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses.

Jake looked around the table at his friends—his chosen family. They were sweaty and slightly sunburned, a little buzzed, and totally alive.

“We should do this every year,” Dominic said, to no one in particular.

“We will,” Jake replied. “Even if we’re old and grumpy and wearing orthopedic rainbow sandals.”

Sam laughed. “Speak for yourself. I’m going to age like RuPaul.”

Another round arrived. Someone made a toast—nonsensical and heartfelt. They clinked glasses again, the way they had in Milwaukee just weeks before.

But this night was different. This was Pride in its wildest, freest, most joyful form.

Tomorrow they would march in the parade. They would wave flags and shout until their voices cracked. They would remember the history, honor the fight, and celebrate the beauty of love in all its forms.

But tonight?

Tonight they were simply together.
​
And that was everything.

~Wylddane

It was the kind of morning that didn’t ask for anything. No demands, no expectations—just stillness. The fog clung to the windowpanes like breath held too long, softening the shape of trees beyond the glass. The world had hushed itself, as if waiting for something unnamed to unfold.

Nathan sat at the table by the window, the weight of the mug warm in his palms. The scent of the coffee curled upward with the steam—familiar, grounding. Across from him sat the small framed photograph. It had been there for years, maybe since the move. The bench in the photo had always felt like a pause in time. It was just a bench, weathered and empty, resting beneath bare branches in a park no one talked about. But to Nathan, it was more than that. It was where something had begun. Or perhaps where something had ended.

He hadn’t thought of Carlo in a long while. Not deliberately. Some memories lie quiet until something small—fog on a window, the hollow ache of an early morning—calls them back. And once they arrive, they do not knock. They simply settle in, uninvited but not unwelcome.

The quiet between them that day had been filled with meaning. Carlo had always spoken best in silences.

They’d sat side by side on that bench, their shoulders nearly touching, breath misting the cold air. There were no confessions, no promises. Just the shared understanding that they had found something, if only for a moment. The kind of moment that becomes a touchstone in the years to come, one you return to again and again when you need to remember who you were when you still believed in things like serendipity.

Nathan set down his coffee. Something in his chest ached—not with sadness exactly, but with the gentle weight of what was left unsaid. He opened the drawer and pulled out a single sheet of thick paper. The pen, an old one Carlo had once admired, fit easily in his hand.

He began to write—not to change the past, not to reclaim it, but to honor it. To let the words exist, even if only here, folded between the quiet and the light.

Dear Carlo,

I almost never write words I don’t send… but this morning, with the hush of the world outside and the warmth of the mug in my hands, it felt like you were near again.

It’s the photo that started it. The bench. The fog. I don’t even remember who took it, or when, but when I look at it I see us—silent, close, real.

What should have passed like any other evening stayed inside me like a held breath. We didn’t say much. But I remember the warmth of your hand in mine. I remember the way your silence felt like understanding.

And maybe that was enough.

Some moments are too quiet to survive in memory. But that one stayed. You stayed. And though time moved on, and life moved forward, some mornings—like this one—I pause, and I remember.

I don’t need to know where you are now, or what your life has become. I only need to thank you for that day, for your stillness beside me, and for the way you made the world stop just long enough for me to believe in it again.

And maybe… maybe I love you. Or always did. In that soft, unspoken way that doesn’t change even when everything else does.

—Nathan

He set the pen down gently, as though any sudden motion might break the fragile stillness around him. The words sat on the page like a breath finally released. He read them once, then again, not to revise or correct, but simply to feel them settle. Then, with slow care, he folded the letter in thirds—just as he used to with letters he did send—and slipped it into a plain envelope. No name, no address. Just the hush of intention.

For a long moment, he held it there in his hands, fingertips resting on the crease, eyes closed. A single tear slid down his cheek—unbidden, unashamed. He placed the envelope into the drawer beside the photograph and closed it with quiet reverence.

Some things aren’t meant to be sent.
​
Some are meant to be kept.

“Some letters are written to be read only by the soul.”  ~Unknown

~Wylddane

Nathan never meant to find the park. It revealed itself one night when the noise of the city had become too much—the honks, the sirens, the drunken laughter trailing from rooftop bars. He’d turned down an unfamiliar street and there it was: a wrought-iron gate cracked open just enough, as if waiting for him. A sliver of green amid the steel and concrete.

He stepped inside.

It wasn’t the kind of park anyone talked about. There were no signs, no playgrounds, no joggers with earbuds. The lamps glowed with a golden softness, casting halos that didn’t reach the ground. Vines crawled along old stone walls. The air smelled of lilacs, even though it was November.

He found a bench—a fifth one, counting from the gate—and sat. A flicker of something stirred in his chest, though he couldn’t name it.

He didn’t go home right away.

That first night began a quiet ritual. Each evening, sometime after dinner but before the hour turned strange, he’d walk there. The city blurred behind him the moment he crossed the threshold. On the fifth bench, he’d sit, breathe, and listen to the world soften.

It was on the seventh visit that the man appeared.

He wasn’t there… and then he was. No sound of footsteps. No rustle of leaves. Just presence. A man, perhaps in his forties, though ageless in that way certain people are. He wore a long charcoal coat and held a ceramic mug in his gloved hands. Steam curled upward like a whispered secret.

“Cold night,” the man said.

Nathan nodded.

They didn’t speak again that evening. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was companionable, somehow, like listening to a song you’ve never heard but already know by heart.

He was there again the next night.

And the one after.

They began to talk. Not about the usual things. Not jobs or politics or weather. But about dreams, and rivers, and how the city sometimes feels like it’s breathing around you. The man’s name, he said, was Carlo. He never offered a last name. Nathan never asked.

“You seem familiar,” Nathan said once, surprising even himself.

Carlo smiled, something wistful in the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been told that.”

On the fifteenth night, Carlo brought a second mug. Chamomile. Light honey. Nathan sipped, grateful for the warmth—and something more.

It was subtle, whatever passed between them. Not flirtation, exactly. But tenderness. The kind that needs no performance. That simply is.

Then one evening, Carlo didn’t appear.

Nathan waited.

The wind rattled the bare branches above. The bench felt colder than usual. He stayed past midnight, until the golden lamps blinked out one by one and he was left in silence.

The next night, he returned.

Still no Carlo.

And then, as he stood to leave, he heard it—his name. Spoken gently, almost like a breath. Nathan.

He turned.

No one.

Only a ripple in the air, like a memory moving through water.

He sat again. Closed his eyes. Tried to still his thoughts.

A vision surfaced—soft and sudden. A summer decades ago. Two young men in the sun, barefoot on warm grass. Laughter. A kiss shared beneath a rustling canopy of leaves. A fall. A hospital. A call unanswered. A name: Carlo.

How had he forgotten?

No. Not forgotten. Buried.

When he opened his eyes, the world shimmered.

And Carlo was there.

Not across the bench. But beside him. Close.

Real?

Nathan didn’t speak. He was afraid to.

Carlo reached out. His hand touched Nathan’s—warm, solid.

“You remembered,” Carlo said. “That’s all I needed.”

The city hummed beyond the park, unaware. Traffic lights blinked. Elevators climbed and fell. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing.

But on the fifth bench in a forgotten park, two men sat beneath bare branches. Together, once more.
​
And the moment held.

~Wylddane

Albert had always worn his years well. His gait was slower now, his hair a silvery wave, but there was still a light in his eyes—an ember of curiosity, of wonder. Yet today, he felt tired. Bone-deep tired. He couldn’t remember when he had started walking, only that he had been walking for a very long time. The path beneath his feet was dappled with light and shadow, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. There was a dreamlike haze in the air, like sunlight seen through water, and he couldn’t quite tell if he was dreaming—or if he had crossed into something else entirely.

At last, he reached a gentle knoll. A bench sat beneath the welcoming arms of a mighty oak tree, its branches whispering secrets to the breeze. With a sigh of relief and quiet pleasure, Albert sat. The bench was weathered but solid. The shade cooled his skin, and the air smelled of warm earth and distant summer rain. Birds sang in a layered symphony, each note a thread in the afternoon’s soft tapestry.

Then he saw him.

A figure, approaching from a different path—one Albert hadn’t taken. As the young man drew nearer, Albert could see he was perhaps in his twenties. Casual clothes, sturdy walking boots, wavy dark brown hair that curled slightly at the temples. His eyes were bright, inquisitive. His posture spoke of strength, steadiness. A soldier, perhaps.

“Mind if I sit?” the young man asked.

Albert shifted, making room. “Not at all.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the kind that needs no words. Then came introductions.

“I’m Matt,” the young man said, extending his hand.

“Albert,” he replied, shaking it. Their hands lingered just a moment longer than expected. It felt like meeting someone he already knew.

They spoke of small things at first—birdsong, the way the light moved through the trees, the scent of honeysuckle nearby. Then of childhood memories, of favorite books and quiet mornings. When the sun began to lower itself behind the distant ridge, they parted with a smile, as though they would see each other again.

And they did.

Each new day, Albert found himself back on the path, climbing that gentle hill, returning to the bench beneath the oak. And each day, Matt would arrive. They would talk—sometimes about the past, sometimes about nothing at all. They laughed together. Confided in each other. Time stretched and folded in ways Albert had stopped trying to measure.

One day, Matt reached into his pocket and handed Albert a small object. A gold star, its center a single ruby.

“It’s a gift,” Matt said simply. “For your friendship.”

Albert took it reverently. The weight of it in his palm felt real. Solid. True.

Then came the jolt. The wrench.

Albert opened his eyes to blinding light and antiseptic air. Beeping machines. The scent of alcohol. A hospital room. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, his heart pounding in confusion and grief.

A nurse entered, followed by a doctor. Their expressions were kind. Concerned.

“You were in an accident,” the doctor explained. “A bad one. You’ve been in a coma for several days. But you’re awake now. You’re going to be okay.”

Albert listened, only half-hearing. He glanced at his hands—and there it was.

The gold star with the ruby center.

Days passed. He healed. He returned home—to his dog, his cat, to the life he had left suspended.

Everything felt both blessed and strange. But one thought stayed with him, as steady as a heartbeat: Matt.

The memory of his voice, his laughter, the calm wisdom in his gaze. It couldn’t have been real…could it?

And yet…

Albert began to search. For the knoll. For the tree. For the bench. Parks, trails, forests—he wandered for weeks. Nothing.

Until one day, while walking through a nearby park he rarely visited, a fork in the path caught his eye.

Something about it stirred recognition in his bones. He followed it. Up a slow hill, past wildflowers and sumac.

And there it was.

The bench. The oak tree. The hush of wind in the leaves. The feeling of home.

He sat, overwhelmed by a rush of joy and longing. He half expected Matt to appear. He did not.

Albert turned his gaze toward the direction Matt had always come from. A narrow trail led away through the trees. Compelled by something he could not explain, Albert stood and followed it. Down a slope, over a trickling stream, through a small thicket. Eventually, the path opened.

To a cemetery.

His breath caught. He hesitated. But something within him urged him on. Past aged stones and quiet names, until he reached one that stilled his soul.

Matthew James Rourke
Beloved Son, Friend, and Dreamer
Born: 1948 – Died: 1973

Twenty-five. Gone fifty years.

Albert sank to his knees before the stone. He did not cry. He simply sat in stillness, a quiet knowing wrapping around him like a shawl. The wind stirred the leaves above, and he felt, not sorrow, but peace.

Welcome back, old friend, the wind seemed to say.

The next day, Albert returned, white lilies in hand. He placed them gently at the base of the headstone, then stood for a long while, holding the little gold star tightly in his palm.

Matt had been real.

Real in the way the soul remembers. Real in the ways that matter most.

Albert never stopped visiting the knoll. The bench became his sanctuary. Sometimes, he would bring a book and read aloud. Sometimes, he would sit in silence, smiling at memories that danced like sunbeams through oak leaves.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when the breeze blew just right and the shadows played across the ground, he could swear he heard laughter—low and warm—and felt the presence of a friend beside him.
​
Not gone. Just ahead.

~Wylddane

The soft buzz of conversation filled the warmly lit apartment as the sun dipped below the skyline of Milwaukee. Jake and Sam moved easily among their friends, hands full with drinks and snacks, laughter curling through the air like music. Their new apartment—sunlight-filtered, plant-filled, and lined with old brick and books—felt like home already, even though the last box had only just been unpacked that morning.

“I still can’t believe you two are actually living together,” Billy said, nudging Jake with a grin as he accepted a glass of wine.

“Well,” Jake said, exchanging a glance with Sam, “after falling in love on a beach vacation, the next logical step was clearly domestic bliss in a restored apartment building  in Walker’s Point.”

Sam laughed. “And honestly, I think we picked the perfect spot. Walker’s Point just feels like us—open, real, a little artsy, a little rough around the edges, but full of heart.”

Dominic, lounging on the edge of the couch, raised his glass of wine. “It’s the neighborhood with history. The LGBTQ+ soul of Milwaukee. You’ve got La Cage, Fluid, and Walker’s Pint just blocks away—and it’s not just bars. It’s the community. The energy. The fact that you can walk hand in hand without a second glance.”

“It wasn’t always like that,” Hal chimed in, leaning forward. “Remember Harbor View in the nineties? It was mostly just Second Street and a few brave spots surrounded by warehouses and train tracks.”

Mike nodded, setting down his drink. “And Bayview’s come a long way too. Queer-friendly brunches, vintage shops, rainbow flags in windows—everywhere you turn, it’s like the city’s been stitching our colors into the fabric of its soul.”

They all paused for a beat, the weight of history settling gently into the space.

Jake looked around the room, his voice quieter but still laced with gratitude. “And now here we are—June again. Pride Month. Can you believe the first Pride was just a year after Stonewall?”

“Fifty-five years ago,” Sam added. “June 28, 1969. The police raid at the Stonewall Inn. People had had enough. They pushed back. That night changed everything.”

“And now Pride is this whole beautiful, chaotic, loving celebration,” Dominic said. “But I still think of those early marches—no corporate floats, no glitter explosions. Just people with signs and hope. Risking everything for the right to exist.”

Hal raised his glass. “To the ones who came before us. To Stonewall. And to making sure their fight was not in vain.”

They clinked glasses.

The room, full of amber lamplight and soft jazz playing in the background, pulsed with connection. They shifted into stories—first kisses, coming out moments, first times in a gay bar.

“Oh god,” Billy groaned. “My first gay bar? I wore a vest. A vest. With nothing under it.”

Laughter exploded around the room.

“I was so nervous I ordered a Shirley Temple,” Mike confessed. “Didn’t even spike it.”

Hal wiped his eyes. “My first time out, I thought everyone would be watching me. Turns out, everyone was too busy dancing to care.”

Jake looked at Sam, who was curled up beside him now on the couch, hand resting lightly on his knee.

“First time I kissed this guy,” Jake said, “we were barefoot on the beach. Sand between our toes. I didn’t want the moment to end.”

“It didn’t,” Sam whispered. “It just got better.”

A quiet settled over them—comfortable and full. The kind of silence that comes when laughter has wrung itself dry and all that remains is love.

Dominic leaned back, sighing. “Chosen family. It’s everything, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” Jake said. “This—right here—is everything I ever dreamed of.”
​
Outside, the city lights flickered on. Pride flags hung from balconies. The hum of Walker’s Point—its long, storied, resilient pulse—beat on into the night.

“We are the laughter after the storm, the joy born of resistance.”  ~Unknown
~Wylddane

This image—bright with color, movement, joy—captures the very spirit of Pride. Hands held, smiles wide, bodies swaying to a rhythm born of freedom and love. It is a simple moment, but one that reverberates with the energy of generations. This is what Pride looks like. And this is what Pride feels like.

We have always been here. From ancient times to modern cities, we have loved, lived, danced, dreamed, and survived. In the shadows and in the spotlight, through silence and celebration. And we will always be here. Our existence is not a trend. Our lives are not a debate. Our love is not a phase. We are part of the human family—radiant, resilient, real—and we claim our right to live and love fully.

We are awesome.

Pride Month is a celebration of that awesomeness. Of the beauty and strength found in simply being who we are. As Laverne Cox once said, “Who you are is beautiful and amazing.” Those words ring true now more than ever. Because in a world that so often tries to define us, box us in, or erase us—we rise. Proud. Bold. Joyful.

It hasn’t always been this way. There was a time when just being ourselves could cost us everything—our jobs, our homes, our families, even our lives. The journey from Stonewall to today has been one of courage and fire. Of standing up when it was dangerous. Of loving when it was forbidden. Of marching forward when it was easier to stay silent.

And still—there are forces today that would drag us backwards. Voices of hate that whisper, shout, and legislate against our right to exist. But we will not go quietly. We will not shrink or hide. We know who we are—and we know that we belong. As Harvey Milk so powerfully reminded us, “Hope will never be silent.”

So let’s dance in the streets and laugh with our friends. Let’s hold hands with the ones we love. Let’s wave our flags high and wide. Let’s celebrate this beautiful tapestry of identities, expressions, and stories that make up the LGBTQ+ community.

But let us also pause—to remember those who came before us, who walked so we could run. And to vow that those who come after us will find an even better world—a kinder world—because of what we do now.

Happy Pride Month.
​
You are beautiful.
You are worthy.
You are loved.
You are awesome.
🏳️‍🌈💃🕺

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

~Wylddane