Twenty-five years ago on April 3, at 12:45 a.m. (as the US fell forward into Daylight Savings Time — and you all know how I feel about that), I was packing for my honeymoon in an as-yet-to-be-disclosed destination (“you’ll need bathing suits”) while my newly-minted husband slept soundly in preparation for our pre-dawn flight. I loved him madly or I might have smothered him with the pillow I would barely lay my champagne-leaden head upon that night.

As I write this, I’m sipping a smooth, single malt and digesting a celebratory meal shared with close, dear friends who also loved My Darling Husband madly.

As I said to him — the Man Who Lassoed The Moon — throughout those amazing years … all my love, all my life.