"while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep,
'Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod.
We're heading for the Bourne Bridge.
We're circling the Bourne Circle.' Bourne!"

I picked up an old book on evolution, and you fell from the page - a place holder for a different time. There you were, as beautiful I remember you, wearing my red shirt and smiling back at me with dimples and blue eyes. Do you remember that day? On a tourist boat in search of whales off the Cape? Do you remember how amazed we were when we actually found them, swimming right next to the boat and leaping out of the water? Alive!

"Big as whales," I said.

And how many pictures I took of you that day. Dozens. And how patient you were with me, to smile for each one.

Fast forward to a year ago today as you sat on your couch knowing something I didn't - your sickness clear to everyone but me. How strange you looked to me in that light, in the gap between your knowing and mine. How different from that day at sea, in search of whales we were sure we would never find.