We've relaxed since getting here, having put down our daily lives on the floor next to our bags and picking up something simpler. We've flitted from restaurant to restaurant, snagging wings here, Chinese there.This afternoon, we went gifting, bringing Patrick along for the plan of getting him a birthday shirt. A simple plan, a dress shirt; help Patrick finally find a dress shirt he liked that actually fit, buy it for him and wish him a happy birthday.

To you, love, from across a timezone, my voice and my words to you.

Eight years married, ten years together; a third of my life now wrapped up in your presence. We've said this every year: it's not the ceremony that holds true importance, it's the everything that comes after that makes a marriage, and you, dear, I have loved more than anyone else I have known in my entire life.

I may fly away, but I am aware, oh so keenly aware, of where home is.

Here's to life. Yours, mine—and most importantly, ours.

Home soon.

The incantation remains the same:

Memory, leave me something - I lose so much on a daily basis; give me this, on days when I was happy, for the days that will inevitably come when I am not, so that I may remember the taste of these moments that, inevitably, go…
— 'Rockies on my right,' 10 October 2004

"She's not a Chinese puzzle box like you."—Chris

I forget sometimes that what I write here doesn't necessarily have to come with an explanation or an easy answer. Some days and some sentiments require me to take a deep breath and trust that what I say will be accepted for what it is, no more and no less, because I am as complex as my life and as simple as my love.

"Well, if you need me to take you to the doctor's office, call me back and let me know. Today's a quiet day. I can do it."

"I think I'll be able to manage. Thanks, though."

I hung up the phone and lay back on the couch. Maybe I'd get some sleep. I set an alarm clock, just in case, and closed my eyes. Only to cough. Again. I put another pillow behind my back and pulled the blanket up a little higher.

I looked down when I heard the little interrogative chirp?, knowing it meant only one thing—Edmund warning me that he was about to jump on my chest. I patted my chest and he hopped up, great lumbering tub of lard he is, and snuggled on my chest. He beamed a kitty smile at me and purred, gently flexing his front claws in rhythm with his breathing.

New Year's Eve is a night in which, by all repute, you're supposed to post something thoughtful and pithy and resolute. Or just drunken, depending on your inclination. Instead, it's just me and Joey Negro, riding the end of my alcohol intake for the night off into the land of sleepy buzz.

2005 was quiet. For the most part, I've come into my own. Life is good, if quiet. House. Cats. Friends.