In the early days, before the heartbreak, before lies passed through tender lips, which once kissed away tears Before he poured poison in my ear. These were the days of warm, soft nakedness. The days of tender vulnerability. We would wake. I would get up, make porridge ad assemble a lunch in his "snack pack." Often these were lovely continental type picnic fillings. Prosciutto sliced thin. Kalamata olives. He like the Breton Wheat crackers the most so a few of those and what ever fruit happened to be around. Sometimes I would make a sandwich. Tuna salad (in olive oil) with red peppers, green onions, capers, lots of fresh parsley, Dijon mustard and black pepper. Or, hot dry cappacoli and New Zealand Edam with the obligatory tomato and lettuce on a Portuguese bun from Strawberry Bakery. He was the first person I ever knew who liked butter and mayonnaise on his sandwiches. This still strikes me as both unnecessary and over-indulgent.

After he ate and zoomed off, wheelie-ing down the ramp and throwing himself into the Hyundai, disassembling his chair in his quick, fine way, I would wrap (my still naked body) myself torso to thigh in his oversized cashmere scarf and read, folded upon the love seat. A love seat I bought for $35 at the Tyldesley Auction house just off Venables. It was a perfect reading place just under the window to catch whatever light the clouds over Vancouver chose to allow. Sometimes, I wouldn't eat much. Restricting myself to 3 digestives and a huge mug of home-made coffee. Ridiculous coffee—sometimes a no-name brand with a yellow label made way to strong with a little milk and an egregious amount of non-dairy hazelnut creamer. Other times, I would write (nothing very poetic or prosaic for that matter). It was my way of waiting for him to return. My ears keyed to the tune of his engine. I would hear vehicles coming up the alley and even though I knew the sound of our car and that these sounds were not just right, my hope was such that I would rise and make sure it wasn't him, hoping that my ears had betrayed me. They did, in the end, betray me (though it would be years before I knew it. When the poison flowed from his lips rising from his diaphragm up through is Modigliani neck, vibrating through his voice box and vocal cords. Flowing through lips that kissed so much of me. Lips which had previously uttered words of support and love and kindness, compassion. Lips which spoke of the true beauty of living—the poignant mixed with elation. Even then, the words those lips spoke where lies but I only heard wing'd poetry. My ears deaf to alternatives. My ears took his poison and were infected by it. They would rupture these little drums upon which he heat out the rhythms of his love for me and then latter pounded out his shame—staccato and sharp like a dumbek or tabla.

Finally, he would arrive home, assemble his chair: first lifting the titanium frame out of the back seat, flipping the back up, spinning the chair body so it would face him, lifting out the right wheel popping it into place. Lifting out the left wheel and popping it into place, and finally, the cushion situation just so—squared into the frame. Then, he would lift one leg/foot out of the car and then the other. Again, first right and then left. He would hold the chair with his left hand, the "oh shit" handle above the door with his right hand and then swing his hips up and leftward into the chair. He would pick up each leg and place the feet on the foot plate. Then he'd lean over, grab his pack and head up the ramp to greet me. His love. His reward for surviving osteosarcoma. He would throw this pack aside and pull my warm nakedness into his lap. He would unwrap me from the cashmere and hold me close to him. Breathing in deeply, whispering words of sweetest appreciation. He called me: A helpmate unto him. He called me: His ample and warm armful.