Love, the painter thought, was a terribly vexing thing. Before he had met her, he fancied himself a master of his craft capable of creating perfection on the canvas; however, their meeting had humbled him. For in his eyes she was real perfection, and nothing he nor any other artist could create could ever quite compare to her.

I walked up to the vending machine and dip into my pocket for the required change and inserted it in the machine. Moments later a 3 musketeers bar falls to the bottom of the receptacle, and I easily remove it. Tearing open the wrapper the smooth chocolate and nougat passes through my lips and melts in my mouth.

In all of her days and nights, none were warmer, happier or more free than that intersection of life which brought her to share Aruba with him. The seed of true love was planted there in the sand, fertilized by the water and sprouted in their hearts, though most of the days and nights since, have been spent in remembrance, not celebration. Sometimes, though, all these years later, they still celebrate, and it still feels like true love.

We said, with bright eyes and full hearts the words generations of couples have exchanged, full of hope and anticipation of the future we would share, the life we would build -- "I take thee to be my spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part" -- never envisioning how hard to overcome "for worse," or "for poorer," or "in sickness" might be. Nor how wonderful "to have and to hold" "to love" and "to cherish" would feel after so many years of figuring out how to best hold gently, love deeply, and cherish genuinely. Nor how quickly death would cease to be a distant whisper to become a beckoning shadow in our room.