He clears a back room, so I may have a writing space of my own. He tells me, “Why not? Just write. Let me support you.” He plans to one day build a writing cabin. He can do this because his hands belong to his grandfather. On the days I am full of angst, he tells me not to worry about craft – take a break – relax. He tells me I have old tapes I need to let go – he acknowledges this takes time.  I tell him I’m ready.  He tells me he thinks I’m afraid of success.  On Fat Tuesday, we dip Royal Reds in drawn butter. I tell him I’m more afraid people will laugh at me for trying – that I’m fooling myself about having anything good to share. He tells me it was worth missing the once-in-a-century Arkansas snow just to watch me play in the wind on the surf. I tell him I may be having an affair with his beard. He tells me my heart is the beauty.  He makes the phrase, with God all things are possible, feel true. The curves of his love – the swirl when I am near his faith, eating and delighting in the fruits of his faith. He plans a gift for me I long for but don’t realize this longing until he reveals it to me. I tell him that I have no gifts for him. And he tells me, “I want one of your photographs. Let’s pick one and matte and frame it together.” Tears burn my eyes. He chops sweet onions and heats olive oil.  He simmers fresh lemon peels and spices with wine. He adds white beans, and we take turns checking the pot. He tears chard and parsley as I dress in warm layers. Just before sunset, I return to the beach for a quick walk past the debris from the hurricane and catch the physics of light stretching ordinary shapes to beyond, the aroma of our homemade life wafting from my clothes. When I return, he ladles our meal into bowls and slices bread. He tells me maybe we have already died. I tell him, “Yes, I think you’re right.”