My world right now belongs to Brian, my dear husband of 43 years.
It belongs to him, rather, to both of us, as we walk along a wooded area, through the forest searching for a grassy meadow, a glade.
The changing terrain reflects the map we run our fingers along, to see where we are going.
But there is no route that is marked, no guidance displayed on my Apple phone.
We know only that he is struggling with his health.
But this isn't just about Brian -- only he can tell his story.
It's about me, no rather, about both of us together.
It's about our serendipitous meeting in Duncan.
About his asking me what my "sign" was before committing to "spend time" with me. And my response, asking what "a sign" was, quickly uncovering his love of astrology.
It's about my proposing marriage to him at the immigration office in Nanaimo.
About creating a huge garden together, with raised beds built by Brian.
And about having art shows together.
It's about my feeling the wondrous gift of Brian's deep love for me, even when I screw up or lose my temper.
It's about love.
Period.
