but their presence is felt and their story remains.
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
ee cummings
They came to the same place every year for 25 years.
When she passed away, he scattered her ashes there and this cross high in a tree keeps a vigil.
The story was told by someone who had been coming to that same place with his love for 20 years.
True, enduring love…
it's (almost always) about the water... 