The Summer of '99

I remember blue skies,
bikes thrown on pebbles after work,
my head on your shoulder,
your arms around me,
safe.

I remember silly jokes,
your 'marriage' to the coffee machine,
mine to the milk dispenser,
the realisation that without each other they were useless,
as we were also useless.

I remember rough carpets,
rough hands,
hard muscles,
soft skin,
Titanic playing in the background and your mother on the telephone.

I remember summer evenings,
driving home,
hands held over the gear stick,
manual choke levers and the smell of petrol from the back seat.

I remember long bus rides,
the ache of parting,
the sound of your voice,
my first mobile phone,
the calls made from park benches,
away from my parents,
away from everyone,
just you.

I remember early morning phone ringing,
mothers frozen expression,
the call to fathers study,
the cold leather sofa,
bad news she said.

I remember long walks up steep hills,
cheap cigarettes,
black makeup,
silence,
disbelief,
denial,
anger,
pain.

I remember smoking on the school field,
tears on my best friends shoulder,
teachers looking,
teachers looking away,
bell ringing end of lunch,
not moving,
not questioned,
alone.

I remember scanning newspaper obituaries,
no mention,
not real,
not there not real,
days passing,
still nothing,
until there was.

I remember people,
so many people,
spilling from the chapel,
filling the car park,
hard wood pews,
cold stone,
soft words.

I remember numbness,
shock,
your brother,
so much like you,
speaking,
curtains closing,
standing,
walking.

I remember...