Hunter is here, and so is my frail and trembling voice, and there are words I need to say to him. We kiss until I take his face in my hands and hold him to me, eye to eye, nose to nose, lips against lips. If I can't get the sound out, I want him to at least be able to feel what I'm trying to say. “Je t'aime aussi, mon amour.” My voice is more breath than sound, a whisper strained through silence. But these words have shape and weight, and they move from my lips to Hunter's ears. “Je t'aime de tout.” Then we're kissing again, and crying, and his tears slide down my face as he holds me tight and
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