It seems to happen every year, at holiday time. The promise of love and joy brings out remembrance and anticipation of young love and of great loss. And it seems to get worse with every year. That’s because age draws us away from the awe of life and the promise of more. Age gives us reason to pause and reflect; to wish things had At least it is for me. I began to write “I Know You by Heart” during a Christmas season, years ago. Remembering times of joy and periods of loss were vivid in my mind and they gave me ample opportunity to put it all down on paper, as fiction. A mother dies, her family mourns, a man who lives less than 100 miles away, who loved the mother all her life does not know she is gone, yet. But when the mother’s older daughter learns the truth, real emotions and the expected reactions spring out of everywhere and everyone learns everything. That’s not what happened to me. I didn’t die; nobody knew anything, but the man who lived less than a hundred miles away and me. The book took root that year; it told its tale and attempted to resolve the pain of this mother, who did not die. The man who lives less than 100 miles away felt terrible when learned she had written a book about them. In fact, he felt even worse than when he left the woman, almost 40 years ago, because he read the manuscript and saw the truth in print. The book is now published—out for the world to read—but the loss remains. “The affair of the heart” is finally over, just as the romance was lost, so long ago. Life goes on for the author; the book sells and implores those who read it to remember to put the old love away when it is possible. No good comes from old love, and damaged souls. Wish it was possible for me.