This morning Daryl got up earlier than I and a bit later came back to the bedroom where I was reading in bed with a fresh, hot cup of tea for me.

The last time I remember someone bringing me a morning cup of tea while I was in bed was in Exmouth, England. Our family friend (although that term does not do him justice) had opened up his home to us, in his usual uber-hospitable way, and it was the last time we visited him. He was elderly by this time and we loved him as an adopted grandfather - although we only ever addressed him as Bill Read. Never Bill, never Mr. Read, never Uncle Bill as he hoped we would, simply, and endearingly, Bill Read. He had visited us several times in Canada and even in Egypt and we had visited him several times in England; being at his place was almost like being at home again. The morning I remember was the first morning of our last visit. He tiptoed into the bedroom where all three of us were sleeping and placed three cups of hot, milky tea beside each of our heads. Of course we all heard him, his shuffling step and snuffling breathing, but we kept our eyes closed and enjoyed the attention and love lavished on us.

"Good morning, Sweetness" Daryl said to me as he put my tea on the night table. I grabbed his hand and kissed it, basking in this new love that brought back to me an old love - cherishing each dearly.