Other things. Over the years, I’ve gotten a lot of nice things from those who love me. Some of them remembered. Some forgotten. The old cliche fits ...o well, it is the thought that matters, not the gift. It is the thought that matters, not the gift itself. Yes, I repeated that on purpose. Here is a gift of giving. The giving of one’s self to another. Submission. Many argue it is not so. Not a gift but a selfish act. They are fools. I say to them, and you, Dear Reader, that here is love. Read. The walk was lined with trees that towered over them, the seven steps to the front door damp from the brief afternoon shower. She opened the door and I stepped into a single room that was larger than the entire flat I had lived in! The furniture was flowered, the hardwood of the floor covered in multicolored rugs with fringe around the edges. I barely had time to notice everything as she motioned me to follow her into the kitchen. Copper pots hung from hooks over the counter, the refrigerator. More

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