When you are weary with age,
and the hearth is cooling with the dying embers of the evening fire,
remember, my darling: you were loved.
Oh, how you were loved.

When the kettle whistles for an era gone
as you shuffle a waltz to the stove. When
the wind clutches at your bones with an ice impenetrable.
Pause. Consider.

You were loved, through and through. And I was too. I was too.