He looked nervous. His ring was made of foil, the flowers were dandelions. He was on his knee though, and he was serious. This was his life he was putting in the line because to him, this - this - was entirely possible.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, fairly sure of himself.

He was eight, and I loved him. He just didn't know that there are shades and lanes and a thousand kinds of love.

It didn't matter. I said yes.

And on those occasions when I can still visit, he calls me "honey" and asks how my days are going. He grins at me and blushes a little. He stands taller, takes his role as the love of my life seriously.

We've been perfectly married for years.