They knew what they were about, those old wives, brewing up their homespun
mottoes. At least they did most of the time. The rest of their finger-wagging is
probably horse shit.

But when your husband comes home and tells you he's just found out his only
brother's dying in middle age, and sits there red-eyed, forearms loose on the
kitchen table, all those bedraggled wiseacre chickens come home to roost. "Blood
is thicker than water"; "home is where the heart is" and, of course, "A good fuck
is the best response to bad news." ....Is that a new one on you? Oh, it's very
popular round our way.

When you're young and cynical it seems cool and free-spirited to reject marriage
and family ties. Once on the better side of 40 (believe me, this *is* the better
side - it's far worse contemplating it from 39) the authenticity of the song
becomes apparent: "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Ain't
that the truth.

You don't get to choose your family of birth, but you can build your very own
when you grow up -- your own ideas, your own rules. Now it so happens we were
both born into good ones, but that hasn't stopped either of us trying to make
ours even better. Find the soul who's a good fit for yours and all things are
possible.

"The worst thing about dying," says James' brother, "is dying alone." His wife
left him three years ago. They had no kids. He wasn't a bad husband: no drink, no
drugs, no violence, no other women. He was a cold husband. He kept himself to
himself, including every tender feeling. I suppose she just got lonely.

James says *he'd* have been like that if we hadn't met. He says he learned about
feelings from me. I think he rates me too highly. He just needed a little
encouragement. My husband is as warm as a hottie bottle in bed on a cold night.
Kind to the bone, this man of mine. My love, my friend, my ally.

Our love -- and our gratitude for that love -- frames everything we do in gold.
No one would think us anything but ordinary if they saw us roaming the garden
center at the weekend. Him shambling along, ill-fitting trousers, probably needs
a shave. Me plump and pretty shapeless now, at least inside my mid-length quilted
parka. One child in a push chair, one running at heel.

But as he sits here, strong gentle hands now twisting in his lap, a single tear
brushed hastily aside, the love in our shabby kitchen is greener and more
flourishing than any garden.

"My love, my poor love.... " I don't know what to say. "How long do they think
he's got?"

"Three months." His voice is dry, flat.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so very sorry." I stand up and move over to him. "C'mere,
babes, give us a cuddle. Let me love you up."

He shuffles to his feet. He looks defeated. I see the lines of my dead
father-in-law's face as they will look in his. I see him as he will look when he
is old. I take him in my arms with all the love I have.

Hesitantly he brings his wooden arms up round my waist, and then I cup his face
in my hands. I want to kiss the stains on his cheek but he'll shy away, I know.
I'm not supposed to notice he's been crying. So, very gently but firmly, I start
to kiss his cold mouth.

At first his response is loving but without passion. He welcomes my presence, but
he's so scared, so sad. Then, as warmth slowly permeates our bodies where they
meet, he suddenly opens his mouth and sucks in my bottom lip. Then he's running
his tongue across the roof of my mouth. He starts to return my kisses as if they
will save his life. Saliva puddles in our mouths, dampens our faces. I feel his
desperation, his starvation.

"Come here, love, come here," I am guiding him through to the living room. We are
still entangled when we reach the door but have to part to get through the
doorway.

Inside I drop to my knees before him on the rug and unzip his jeans. No
underpants as usual. He steps out of his trousers, undoes his shirt. His cock
feels so hot in my hand. It is already hard. I know how much he loves fellatio --
does any man not? -- and I open my mouth to take in that velvet plum. My only
thought is to cherish him. I look up to meet his eyes as I engulf him.

But this doesn't feel right and in an instant I know why. He feels alone, stark,
standing up there in the cold while I kneel at his feet. I tug gently at his
hips, urging him to join me on the floor.

He comes down slowly, knees stiff, joints seeming arthritic. Everything about him
has aged as a response to the wrenching news this day has brought. Mortality
stares him bleakly in the face. But I will beat her off, at least for now. *My*
face holds warming life, holds endless love. My arms reach for him. 'Come to me,'
I think. 'I'll make it better.'

Though, of course, I can't. That must wait on another proverb - "time heals all
wounds." But he needs something *now*. All my selves -- lover, wife, friend,
mother -- stretch out to protect him, support him. He is my baby, my precious
one. He sinks down onto me and, with sudden fluency, grips my shoulders as he
plunges with long practice straight into my depths. This is what he needs.

I am, for whatever reason, ready. It feels so right to have him safe there. I
feel like a harbor, I hold him tight. I hold him in my arms as urgently as though
I were carrying him safe from a burning building.

He fucks as if he wants to break me open, stabbing deep and frantic. What he
really wants, my little love, my big hero, is to run away. And, as this can't be
done, he can at least hide for a while.

He can't go on at this pace, I think. He'll come any minute. But he doesn't. He
rides me wildly, on and on. A word flicks across my brain. 'Apocalypse.' My whole
soul watches him with tender anxiety, so focussed on his pain that my own
response takes me off guard and I plunge, with a gasp, into orgasm like a barrel
over a waterfall.

And that is what he needs to set him free. As he feels me clench and spasm around
his shaft, as he hears my "Unngh" of release, he starts to come. And this is the
most prolonged release I've ever known from him. Again and again he pulses, until
his deep grunts fade to high, astonished whimpers. His legs are trembling. And
then I feel the wetness: between my legs, on my shoulder.

James is crying. And I hold him without speaking. If I make any comment he might
stop and he needs to let it go.

He cries for a long time, until he starts to sniffle. This reminds him that he
doesn't cry, so he stops. He doesn't like it much, but I take his watery face in
my hands and make him look at me.

"I love you, darling," I say earnestly. "I always will. You are *not* alone. And
you won't die alone. I love you. I'm here."

He wouldn't admit it, but that's what he needed to hear. I see exhaustion and
relief in his face. "I'll go and make us a nice cup of coffee," I offer.

He smiles. "That sounds good. We've just got time for a bit of a cuddle before I
pick the kids up."

But when I return he's sound asleep on the rug, sprawled loose and chunky. A tiny
smile on his peaceful face. I fetch a coverlet for him, and cuddle my mug as I
watch his chest rise and fall. Fruitful love twists a roof of leaves and
fragrance over our heads on this desolate gray afternoon...