WITH THE HELP OF MY BROTHER AND SISTER-IN-LAW, I’ve put the apartment back to something like what it was before. It feels like a time capsule now—I don’t have it in me to do anything but restore. Nothing new to sit on, no new art to look at, only the comfort of the utterly familiar. It is what’s left.

We spent most of the day yesterday organizing thank-you cards for everybody—I’ll try to get them out soon, but I have to get a couple hundred stamps first. We’ll see how that goes.

On Friday, I went to my therapist, Dr. Weiss, and said I was upset that I hadn’t yet dreamed of Rog. My dreams are usually so vivid, and I haven’t been dreaming at all—or at least not aware of having dreamed. My sleep feels more like a blackout, probably because, until last week, I hadn’t really slept at all since February. The dread that had been a daily companion (“Good morning, heartache—sit down…”) while Roger was sick and getting sicker is gone, replaced by sadness. Sadness sucks, but it’s a heckuva lot better than dread. “What does it mean, that I’m not able to dream of Rog?” I asked her. Dr. Weiss suggested it needn’t mean anything. Rational, but not satisfying.

Late Friday night, Susan Haskins and Michael Riedel rebroadcast a Theater Talk show on PBS, in which I make Roger really uncomfortable on-camera while I describe how much writers, directors, and actors adore him, and how lucky I am to be the man who shares his life. I remember the day we taped this show, wondering if I would have the nerve to go through with my scheme. Obama had just “evolved” on the subject of marriage equality; Roger and I had been married for less than a year, but it still wasn’t legal if we crossed the Hudson River into New Jersey. So I decided to stop talking about theater and say some personal things about Roger, because I wanted people to see two men in love, to demystify it, to honor it. He was mortified. I wasn’t very good—my heart was pounding out of my chest—but I’m so glad I said what I said publicly, so that I don’t now regret missing the chance.

Now it’s Sunday morning, and Roger still hasn’t stopped by in my unconscious or my subconscious or my sub-unconscious to say, hello, everything’s okay, don’t worry, get on with it. Throughout these early days of mourning, these long days of shifting one’s weight, everything seems so fraught with meaning (Dr. Weiss’s advice notwithstanding). Tikkun olam: Does it mean something, not dreaming? Does everything acquire an eerie, beyond-the-grave significance now that Rog is gone? Is he really gone? What if, maybe, he’s trying to reach me? In a world where there is no proof about anything, where there’s no such thing as absolute surety, is maybe good enough? Is Dr. Weiss correct; is it better, wiser, truer to accept what’s happened and get back to living, even if this is all living is going to be? And if this is all there is, isn’t it better to just go back to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream of Rog?

And speaking of Hamlet…

These are the thoughts meandering through my head this morning, after watching On Stage on NY1, during which Donna Karger, the show’s intrepid host, presented a very sweet tribute to Roger.

Then I heard something: the sound of something falling in the other room.

I went in to investigate. The sun glinted off something on the floor. Something on the marble hearth in front of the fireplace. What was it?

It was a small metal square, silver colored, with five words engraved: AMERICAN THEATRE WING TONY AWARD. It had fallen off of Roger’s Tony (for Nicholas Nickleby in 1982). It had never fallen off before. I held it in my hand, and I started to laugh. “You are here! Hello, baby! Hello, my love!” I ran to Roger’s supply closet and got some double-sided tape and reaffixed the plaque. Because I knew, I knew that this was Rog saying hello.

You see, the Tony sits on the mantel in our office with some other stuff we’ve managed to win for this or that, but it’s not close to the edge, or precarious in any way. It’s just sitting there in a lineup, minding its own business. Until this morning at 9:45 a.m., when, all of a sudden, it popped its cork.

Tell me I’m crazy. But I’m a believer. Rog passed through. And I’m glad I was home when he did. Either that, or it’s the heat and I need to get out of the sun. I can go either way. But I suspect our mischievous friend Mister Rees was “having a go.”

It might have been Roger flying off to London, where he had hoped to be present at Richard Pasco’s memorial service at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden. Dickie Pasco was a great mentor to Rog, and he so wanted to be there today—to join with his beloved gang of RSC mates, packing into the church to honor one of The Greats.

I hope Rog made it there after all, and much love to Barbara Leigh-Hunt and everyone supporting her, from Roger and me. Bravo, Dickie!

Enjoy the balmy night, dear Report reader—and if you hear anything clattering in the other room tonight, it might just be Rog and Richard Pasco being a bit naughty.

God bless and lots of love,

Rick