Happy Birthday

By my recollection, the day I met My Jamie was a Sunday.  I was celebrating my birthday with lunch in the backyard of two friends who had invited me over for grilled steak.  I was at their house when MyFella called.


He said he was coming.
I said I would tell them.
He said they already knew.


He said he was bringing his brother, MyJamie.


He was driving his truck we still have, MyJamie sitting like a prince in the seat.


I don't remember much of the lunch.  I remember their round wrought iron patio table. 


I remember Jamie going up their steps through the back door.


I remember a late afternoon snack at the McDonald's near my then-apartment.  Main thoroughfare in that part of town.


Needed something before their drive home.


My Jamie was covered in ketchup.  He was always passionate about French fries.  My Jamie loved French fries.  There was ketchup everywhere.


My Fella said something very close to, "This will be my life.  This won't change.  If you can't handle this, we need to know now."


I understood, of course.  Mind you, I wasn't expecting an ultimatum on my birthday.  But the logic behind it was sound. 


My grief counselor says when you choose to love, you choose to grieve.  There's some logical math behind her statement.  Someone will always die first, someone will always grieve.  In a McDonald's in Midtown on a main road through this southern city, I didn't know I was choosing to grieve.  I knew I was choosing to love. He chose to love too, My Jamie.