Today is Twenty Five Years. I woke up thinking of the stuffed Koala bear I keep on the top shelf in my closet. It was the very first gift Michael ever gave me. A Koala bear and a single rose on Valentine's Day in 1984.

I thought about all of the moves, all of the kids, all of the cities, all of the years. How that bear survived - I don't know. Especially knowing me. Knowing us.

It's a chilly March morning and the birds are bitching about the snow. Time to start the day.

As I make my way to the coffee pot - there on the island, he was. A perfectly greyed, conservative bear. A Koala. He had a single rose.

This all just happened. His gesture. My thoughts.

I climbed the stairs to retrieve my first bear - hoping on the way that it would be facing the new bear. It wasn't.

But - the old Grampa bear fit perfectly behind it and it's arms wrapped over it naturally - like a great protector of things. My little bear even kind of gazed up at him with the eyes of a crush.

I don't know what all this means. Maybe - after all of these 25 years where I have picketed for independence and strength, where the oak and the cypress have been my mantra, maybe somewhere - someone is trying to tell me that it is time to relax. That it is okay to hunker down and feel the warmth and vulnerability of love.

I read this all to Michael-- and he said, "I don't know-- I think you're wacked."

Twenty Five Years.