A friend who has observed Buck and me together at various times over the years
took me aside recently, unshed tears needing only a blink to spill. "I would kill to have someone look at me the way he looks at you," she said.
Another quiet New Year's Eve together: West Indies blue crab salad, smoked salmon with cream fraiche, red onion and capers on whole grain baguette slices, chocolate ice cream and Bailey's Irish Cream, and old songs played on the piano while Maggie moves silently in the darkened room to lay her chocolate and cream whiskered chin on my knee. Buck croons"For you are beautiful, and I have loved you dearly, more dearly than the spoken word can tell," as he turns off Christmas tree lights, sconces and the candles in the window.
An antique clock ticks loudly in the study while I type. Black-eyed peas simmer on a back burner in the kitchen and the smell of pulled pork loin barbecue is beginning to escape from the big crock pot with its cracked handle. It's a dark day, with a cold front bringing freezing temperatures here in the panhandle. But we are together. We are warm. We have a history. We have reality that can never be undone. And, as I've said so many times in this space, the rest is gravy.