I remember the day Jethro and I exchanged rings.

The snow was so deep it covered our feet; the air was so cold we could see our breath. But I remember it as being as warm as the perfect summer's day.

Mother had passed away, and Jethro had declared that I needed a holiday, or I should say 'a vacation'. He took me to Scotland; a country that, had it not been for Jethro, I would have made my home.

There on the top of a snow covered hill, in three simple words, he proposed to me. Naturally, I accepted. And from the depths of his overcoat pocket he pulled out a small box, where two matching gold bands nestled inside.

Later we formalized things, I do after all still hold a British passport, and that day is a special memory too.

But my favorite memory is of the two of us alone, with the mere hint of dusk and more snow in the air. There, in one another's arms, lips touching, fingers tingling with the chill, and one finger in particular encircled with the overt and outward proof of our love for one another, we took the final step.