Words never seem to grow out of me - not like the way they sprout one by one up from your heart and entwine every part of me. What have I done to be loved in this way? It is all I can do to say, "Thank you," or some other phrase that is so insufficient to echo the praise rushing at me in torrents of undeserved grace. Puddles pale by a sea. And yet words were supposed to be harder for you than for me, so they told us. "That's marriage," I guess it is, often, but not in our case. You abandon the mold.