Mark

 I am of the light

Take me and teach me

Love me and lead me

Into the light always.

He recited this to me in his sonorous, slightly gravelly voice not long after he moved in with us in May of 2016. I immediately  committed these lines to memory, knowing sooner or later I'd write them to commemorate him.

It was supposed to be later. Much later.

Eva met Mark in early July of 2014. He was her second date after she and I opened our marriage, and it was apparent very quickly she'd struck gold. She rescued him from dying of loneliness; he fit into our household quickly and seamlessly.

Mark was a man of mind, heart and touch. Before we met him, he had been a registered massage therapist, with thirteen professional designations and his own spa. He was profoundly spiritual: you could get him talking endlessly about planes of existence, reincarnation and other esoteric topics. He believed he had lived a prior life as a warrior monk, like the Shaolin in Kung Fu. For all I know, he did. He certainly had deep compassion and ever-burning anger at injustice. His energy was a kind of ferocious calm. 

Mark had a gift with animals. He came to us with his beloved and ancient cat, Olivia, and was soon part of Tux's pack. Mooch and Bubbles the cats cuddled him day and night, but his most prized pet was Dolly. "Papa Mark" loved his Dolly so much.

We've known this was coming. Mark suffered -- oh, how he  suffered -- from something called gastroparesis. It was awful to live beside; I can't even begin to imagine how tortuous it was to live with. Roughly every three weeks in summer and two weeks in winter, he'd "go down". This would involve heaving and puking. If he was lucky, also unconsciousness. He wasn't often lucky. He could go hours and hours without a pause, heaving and retching and moaning. Eva and I would exchange glances every time: is this the attack that will end him?

Last night, it did. He seemed to be recovering; he said good night to me, at least, which he could be too far gone to do. But he didn't wake up this morning. And now he's gone, and there's a huge hole in this house where Mark ought to be.

I love you, Mark. Go into the light. Always. 

Mark Langan August 28, 1958-August 21, 2025