The only thing is, he died—he died and he doesn’t write me postcards with exclamation points anymore; he no longer sends tidings from all parts of the globe: I’m here, I love you.

The only thing is, he died-he died and he doesn't write me postcards with exclamation points anymore; he no longer sends tidings from all parts of the globe: I'm here, I love you.

For most of us, love builds subtly over time, on a foundation of shared laughs, intimate moments and, often, love letters. And not necessarily swooping fountain-pen declarations of adoration either.