The package was waiting for me when I returned home. I knew what it was the moment I saw the post mark. I knew what it would contain.

As I opened it and took out the single sheet of paper, together with the sprig of rosemary, it all came back to me. And as I remembered, I found I wanted, indeed needed, to write about it. It seemed a fitting thing to do.

He was my first lover; he taught me . . .

He taught me so much. So very much, not least that to be a homosexual was not wrong. Actually, at the time legally it was, but that is not what he meant. He was a good man, one of the best I have ever known. He was compassionate, caring, intelligent, amusing, loving, gentle, strong, supportive, giving. He truly was a wonderful man.

He taught me. He showed me. He shared with me. He loved me.

He loved me. He loved me very much, so very much. And yet he sent me away. He knew, you see. He was a romantic; he believed fervently that there was one true love, one right person in the world for everyone. And although I was his, he knew that he was not mine. So he sent me away.

And of course he was correct, although I did not understand, could not appreciate it at the time. I was hurting too much because of what he had done. I loved him. He loved me. How could he send me away? He said that it was for my own good. But how could that be?

Later, when I met my beloved Jethro, I did understand; I did appreciate what he had done. I longed to write to him, to tell him, to thank him, but I could not. When he sent me away he forbade me to write; saying it would be too painful for him, and also it wouldn't be right for me, as I would still be holding on to him. Still hoping. I begged him, but still he refused.

However, on the day I was to leave, he took me into his garden, where we had spent many happy hours, and showed me a rosemary bush he had planted. He told me that rosemary was for remembrance, and that he had left instructions with his Solicitor that when he passed away, a sprig would be sent to me, so that I would know.

It is in front of me now; still whole; still alive; it has been carefully packaged. Jethro will be home soon; when he arrives I shall show him what I have written, and tell him that I wish to plant the rosemary in our own garden. It is the best way to remember a man who made me so much of who I am today. My beloved will understand, of that I am certain.

Rest in peace, my dear old friend. I am forever grateful for everything you did.