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It was our tradition each Christmas Eve to dunk gingerbread into Italian hot chocolate and chat. It was a really yummy start to Christmas.

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Let us start this tradition of writing love letters, real ones. Be they a few words or pages long, they are the art works of the heart. Each one is a masterpiece on what otherwise would be such bare walls in my home. I love your colours. I am instantly absorbed into the lightest touch of your brush. And though we are moral beings of matter, this love we share feels as immortal as anything I could ever imagine being so. You right me with your writings, one word at a time, even as I right you with my own.

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It was the tradition in our house to celebrate occasions with homemade food, to share the making and the eating. We never went in for the gift-buying thing and it made us all the stronger I feel.

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Our tradition was loving notes in unexpected places. Those few words were the rocket fuel of our days and of our lives. They kept us right there in that moment of love, in that realisation that we had made such a momentous eternal bond.