His love was quiet.

To say measured would be unfair.

Undemonstrative. One needed patience.

To wantingly peel the onion. Naivete had its rewards.

Some – blind to the layers. Shaded by material.

His wealth – in ideas. The transport of literature.

Words do not pay bills. Or deliver the goods.

For most, anyway.

Eventually departure.

Twenty years passed.

Death bed confession.

One of love and hope.

He too, treasured our bond.

Beyond others.

I carry that gift.

For eternity.