February first - that's me and Jamie,

snowy Aspen, warm with après rum;

see our eyes? Intense, so bright yet dreamy,

blinded to the nightmare soon to come.

April second - there's his leg in plaster,

tumbled down a drunken flight of stairs;

far too dark to recognize disaster,

autograph on cast: "He wins who dares!"

June the twenty-third - he needs a doctor,

choking at the table by the pool;

CPR thanks to some gym instructor,

I stood snapping photos like a fool.

August fifth - self-portrait - feeling lonely,

"Happy Birthday Me" but there's no cake;

Jamie's muscles limp as macaroni

barely twenty-three, for Jesus' sake!

Look at him, resplendent in his wheel-chair,

twenty-third November, I recall;

pushed him to the garden watched him smile there,

held his hand and tried hard not to bawl.

Seventh of December, at the graveside,

that's me, tossing petals down the hole;

shaking with the tears that no-one else cried,

said goodbye to Jamie, and my soul.